Enjambement
by Reikah
Summary: I mean, who'd expect the famous deceased Edward Elric in a dump like Rulingrad?" (light Ed x Al, hints of Roy x Riza; incomplete).
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Enjambement  
**Rating:** PG-13 (T)  
**Disclaimer:** I in no way own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am merely abusing the characters as I see fit.  
**Pairings:** Edward x Alphonse (Elricest); possible Roy x Riza (RoyAi).

* * *

"Al, breakfast's ready. Lay the table for me."

Alphonse woke up with the sure and happy knowledge that it was a Friday and he didn't have to cook. He struggled momentarily with the bedcovers, finally wriggling free of them and sliding onto the floor, only to find himself staring at a metal foot right beside his head.

"Al-_phonse._ Stop messing around."

Al sat up, yawning, and stretched his arms over his head. "I'm not 'messing around'," he complained when he got his breath back, but before he could say anymore Edward's automail foot nudged him gently in the stomach. With a squeak, he curled back up again. Affecting a dramatic sigh, Ed ambled back into the kitchen, mumbling vague curses under his breath. Al watched him set the table with one eye slitted open, an affectionate grin on his face. Clad only in a pair of loose shorts, hair ruffled from sleep and slipping out of the braid to brush against his neck, this relaxed Edward was a far cry from the renowned Fullmetal Alchemist of barely two years ago, and all the better for it as far as Alphonse was concerned. Still muttering, Ed padded to the door and picked up the newspaper from the doormat. Something on the front page seemed to hold his attention, because he didn't come back to the table. Curious but not overly worried, Al stood up and began the search for his clothes.

Hmm... a shirt strewn across a lampshade, a pair of boxers on the windowsill – no, they were Ed's – a pair and a half of boots by the door, and – _ a-ha!_ – some jeans underneath the wardrobe. Al pulled them out and riffled through the chest of drawers for a new set of underpants, scowling slightly as he did so. "Brother! It's your turn to do the washing!" When there was no reply, Al headed into the kitchen to find his brother at the table, the newspaper spread out over the tabletop. Ed's expression was unreadable, and Al felt an icy hand grip his stomach. "What is it?"

Edward glanced up at him, his lips parting but no sound forthcoming. Still silent, Ed pushed the paper across the table and yanked back a chair, sitting down heavily. Al took the seat opposite him, reading carefully. "'Trouble in Yikatrinburg...military called in...' Yikatrinburg is still several miles away, brother. I know you don't want the military to find you, but..." Edward waved his human hand impatiently, his automail one curled around a cup of coffee. Alphonse kept reading. As his eyes scanned the page, he could feel his own despair grow. "They're using this city as a base," he whispered faintly, dropping the paper. "I liked it here, but if we have to leave–"

"No." Ed's voice was thick with anger. "I'm _not_ being forced out of another home. They won't be here long, and it's not like they'll be looking for us." He gave a short ugly bark of laughter, and downed the remainder of his coffee in one gulp, setting the cup onto the table with a thump. "I mean, who'd expect the famous deceased Edward Elric in a dump like Rulingrad?" Al reached across the table, placing both his hands – his warm, pale, flesh-and-blood hands – on top of Ed's metal one. Ed visibly softened at the contact and covered his brother's hands with his left, trapping them there.

"It's okay," Al murmured. "We just have to stay out of sight. Let's finish breakfast, and then go shopping." Ed nodded, his shoulders slumping as his anger evaporated. When he opened his eyes, he flashed Al a genuine smile, the kind he seemed to wear more and more often these days but were still valued by his brother. "But first..." he mused, trailing off, and Ed tilted his head, narrowing his eyes in confusion at his brother's abruptly pensive tone. "First...you might want to put on something besides your pants. Not that _I'm_ complaining, but..."

Even after being around Edward for this long, he still didn't duck in time to avoid the cushion hurled at his head.

* * *

Ed loved watching his brother paint. Sometimes, he would sneak into the studio Al had made from the second bedroom of their flat and just sit behind Al as he worked, watching the way a bundle of disjointed lines and colours would become a bowl of fruit, or a bird in flight, or – and most often – a kitten. When Alphonse's soul was still bound to the suit of armour, his art had been done through Alchemy, sculptures transformed from compound ingredients. Even then, they had been beautiful, but making something artistic through alchemy was never as satisfying as creating something with your bare hands. Ed had asked Al, once, why he never tried painting. The metal clanking that accompanied every small movement Al made had stopped, and the armour-bound soul had turned, looking down at his older brother. Still with that unnerving silence, Al had simply held out the empty gauntlets that served as hands and said, in his quiet, hollow voice, "These are not an artist's hands, brother." That time, Ed had nodded and sat besides his brother, watching Al make his sculptures while internally kicking himself repeatedly in the head.

One of the first things Al had done when he got his body back – aside from running his hands over his brother's face, astounded by the softness of Ed's skin and the contrasting harshness of underlying bone, when had his brother's face become so sharp? – had been to buy a set of paintbrushes. The first thing he painted had been a watercolour of Ed and Al and Winry and Den, all sitting out in the sun. Al had loudly denounced it as a complete disaster and indeed, his work had vastly improved since then, but Ed had kept the watercolour. When they left the Rockbell's for their new life, the painting had gone with them every step of the way. It hung, now, in the hall, opposite the door, so that it was the first thing you would see when you opened it. Al smiled whenever he saw it, but never said anything about it to his brother.

Al had tried to combine his need for a model with Edward's strange hobby, but while Ed would sit perfectly still when he was behind the canvas, he fidgeted relentlessly in front of it. The last effort to paint the older Elric had ended with the younger throwing his paintbrush at him and refusing to talk to Edward for five hours, until he could be persuaded to forgive Ed by the promise of hot chocolate.

Today was different. Al sat in front of a blank canvas, his equipment scattered around him, and thought about a group of people he hadn't seen in a very long time. Sometimes he missed them, missed Fury and Farman and Breda and Havoc and Hawkeye and... and yes, even Mustang, a little. Ed was angry with Mustang. That's why they'd made this elaborate lie – hadn't written to them to let them know that yes, they were alive, that Al had his body back, that it was all okay. Al had wanted to, but Edward had glared into the distance and shook his head 'no'. He didn't want to be a dog of the military anymore, and he didn't want Al to be one either. Al could understand that, really, he could, but it didn't stop him from feeling sad.

When Edward entered the studio, a glass of apple juice in his hand, he found Al hard at work on a painting of a woman in a military uniform holding a black and white dog. Alphonse paused as he heard the footsteps and looked back at Ed over his shoulder, his face splitting into an easy grin. "What're you thinking?"

Ed didn't answer straight away. Instead, he took a sip of his juice and came to sit down next to Al, studying the portrait with the same intense care he would a textbook on clchemy. "I'm thinking...I'm thinking about how it would be nice to see Lieutenant Hawkeye again," he said, softly. Al slowly put down the paintbrush and began sealing the tops of his paints, waiting for Ed to continue. "Although she's probably still working for that smirking bastard of a Colonel."

Al thought very carefully about what to say next. "Do you think she would like to see us again?"

Ed grinned at him toothily, golden eyes narrowed into glimmers of wicked light. "Probably. But she's in Central and we're not, and we're dead and she's not." Ed stretched, languidly, lazily.

"We didn't have to do it this way, brother. The Colonel would probably have let us go, like he did with Dr Marcoh. We could have written to him, at least," Al said reproachfully, sliding off his chair to land in Ed's lap. His brother wrapped his arms around him and rested his chin on Al's shoulder, cheek pressed against cheek. It still thrilled Al, even three years later, to know that he could _feel_ this, that the heat pooling all over his body at the feeling of warm skin against his own wasn't a fluke.

"I spent far too many years writing things for the military," Ed mumbled, his lips brushing softly against Al's neck. "I think we deserve some time for just us." His flesh palm slid against his brother's, their fingers twining together smoothly. For once, Al found himself unable to argue as Ed's other hand found its way underneath his shirt, sliding slowly downwards.

* * *

The military train rumbled into town at dawn a scant three days after the newspaper headlines. Their apartment overlooked the station approach, and Alphonse was awoken by the shrill whistle of the train as it came to a stop.

"'s odd," he mumbled against his brother's shoulder, "no trains on Sunday."

Ed made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a "murr" and yanked Al's pillow out from underneath him, placing it over his head to block out the outside racket. Al sighed, knowing that the pillow was beyond salvation now, and sat up, hooking his fingers together and forcing his arms above his head in an effort to ease the ache in his neck. He opened one eye mid-stretch to see a pair of golden ones watching him and smiled, relaxing and ripping the pillow away from Ed. "Brother. You're not fooling anyone. Come on, and I'll make some coffee."

They drank their coffee in the studio, watching the train unload through a pair of binoculars, looking for anyone they recognised. Ed wore only his faithful - and somewhat lucky, to have made it thus far- leather pants, and Al had a blanket thrown over his shoulders. The morning light shone almost painfully brightly through the huge windows, picking out the scattered remains of Al's latest project over the floor. ("What do you mean, 'modern art'? You just flicked a paintbrush all over it! _Elysia_ could've done better, for God's sake- Al, why are you looking at me like that? Al?" and a few seconds later, "I've changed my mind, it's a... um... thingy- euphemism? No, metaphor? Whatever- about the human condition. Yeah, that's what it is. And, um, keep your mouth _there_, thanks.") There was still some of that blue paint left in Ed's hair, though Al had refrained from pointing it out.

Al blinked, realising he'd just missed something Ed had said, and asked him to repeat himself. Ed shot him a curious look and did so, one hand toying with the handle of his coffee mug as he spoke. "Winry was supposed to be here yesterday. Do you think she's been delayed by this screwing around with the schedule?"

Winry came by twice a year to check up on Ed's automail. She and Auntie Pinako were the only people who knew that the famous Elric brothers still lived, and though Winry jokingly threatened to spill their secret to the military - "So Ed can go back to damaging his automail and I can go back to making lots of money from him" - she would never carry it out.

"Probably. She'll call later on today and tell us when the next train from Central will be. And you know she'll bill us for the delay, too."

"Mmmm." Ed took another sip of his coffee and grimaced. "Al."

"Yes?"

"...No _milk_, damnit."

"But black coffee's foul, brother," Al said innocently, and Ed scowled a reply. Al raised the binoculars again and stared back out the window, at the swarms of blue uniforms emerging from the train and descending on the just-awakening Rulingrad. "Hey, is that Sergeant Major Fury?"

"Where?"

"Getting out of the first carriage, second door. There's a blonde, but I can't see if it's Lieutenant Hawkeye or not." Al tossed the binoculars through the three feet of air separating them, and in a fluid motion Ed snatched them out of the air with his left hand. He gulped back the rest of his coffee, set the empty mug on the floor, and settled to playing with the magnification. Al spread his palms against the heavy glass window that covered two thirds of the studio wall, looking up at the sky. It was going to be a beautiful day today. Usually on days such as this, he'd drag Ed with him to go shopping for food. Somehow they'd end up in the local park, and then they'd go to a restaurant - or maybe visit a play, something with an intricate enough storyline to keep Edward happy and cleverly worded dialogue and deep characters to satisfy Alphonse.

"The blonde isn't Hawkeye, the face is too rounded. But I agree, that looks like Fury." Ed peered up to scrutinise the crowd quickly, then scowled. "I can't see anybody else we know. Here, you try," and with a flick of his wrist the binoculars were flying back towards Al.

"Brother," Al said, wrapping their leather strap around his wrist instead, "we can't spy on them all day. I have things to do, including a painting I was going to finish before you dragged your braid through it."

Ed blinked and raised a hand to his hair, feeling the hardness of dried paint. "Oh. Um. Sorry?"

Al smiled at him. "Go shower, lazy."

More to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Enjambement  
**Rating:** PG-13 (T)  
**Disclaimer:** I in no way own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am merely abusing the characters as I see fit.  
**Pairings:** Edward x Alphonse (Elricest); possible Roy x Riza (RoyAi).  
**Notes:** Main Entry: **en·jamb·ment**  
Pronunciation: _in-'jam-mont_  
Variant(s): or **en·jambe·ment**  
Function: _noun_  
: the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different lines.  
**Spoilers:** Episodes 25, 31, 32 and 40.

* * *

It had been a cold day when Roy Mustang had finally turned up. Winry had been expecting him ever since she'd let Ed and Alphonse slip away, since she'd heard about his rising to the post of "Fuhrer". She smiled to herself as she saw him come up the path leading to her home, Major Hawkeye pacing by his side.

"We've got guests. Can you put the kettle on, please?" Granny Pinako blew smoke in the air and shook her head at the foolishness of children, and left to prepare coffee. Winry had grinned at her and slipped her wrench into her belt, pausing a moment at the mirror in the hallway to school her expression into a sorrowful mask before opening the door.

"Ah...Miss Rockbell? You're looking well." Mustang had said, and sounded like he meant it.

"Please, come in." She sat them in the waiting room while Granny Pinako bought in the drinks, and made small talk until the last cup had been drained.

Mustang put the empty cup on a nearby table filled with proto-type automail eyes, folding his hands over his lap. He was wearing his gloves, Winry had noticed, and she bit her lip at the sight. "Miss Rockbell, I assume you know the reason I am here?"

"Ed and Al," she had replied promptly.

He nodded.

"You're three months too late," she said, absently picking up an automail arm from the floor near her feet and flexing the wrist and fingers.

Something about her expression - which she'd been practising so _hard_ since Ed had first thought of the plan- told the military personnel something was amiss.

"Have they already left?" Riza Hawkeye inquired.

Winry shook her head. "Maybe you'd better come with me, Fuhrer," she said, putting the arm on her chair as she stood up. Without a word, Mustang rose, and Winry hide her smile when Riza stood up too. She walked quietly up the stairs, fishing in her tool belt for the keys to the small room at the end. It had been Ed's bedroom when he wasn't in surgery, and thus had seemed perfect for the hoax. She opened the door, flicked on the lights, and made her way over to the windows to let in some fresh air. Three month's worth of dust had built up. She heard Riza gasp as the lights illuminated the only two things in the room, but Mustang made no sound.

Al's armour lay against the wall opposite the door, its helm in its lap. The eyes were dark. The back of the neck, where the blood seal had been, had been carved out neatly. A table next to the armour carried Ed's silver pocket watch, nestled on top of his coat.

"About three months ago," she said. "It was Envy. Ed got him, but was injured himself in the process. He..." she paused for dramatic effect, still looking out of the window. "He wouldn't let me help. He was...hysterical, kept talking about having no reason left to live. I didn't think...I didn't think he was that dramatic enough to...to..."

"To do what, Winry?" Hawkeye asked when Mustang didn't.

"He killed himself," she said, turning back to face them. Crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of a hand, taking the opportunity to study her visitors. Hawkeye was mostly stunned, but Mustang was silent, his head ducked down. "Drowned himself in the river. The body was...horrible." She took a deep breath, judging their reactions to be appropriate, and continued, "we...Granny and I...buried Ed and what was left of Al's seal in the cemetery over the hills. Where their mom's grave is. Do you want to...see them?"

"Yes," Mustang said into the silence. Winry nodded.

She led them out of the house, over the hills to the cemetery her parents and Tricia Elric called their final resting place. They said nothing as she led them past rows of neat grey tombstones, to an impressively shaped monument and the plain, ordinary headstone next to it.

"Alphonse Elric," said the inscription on the sculpted one, and "Edward Elric," it said on the other.

Winry left them there, to their own reflections. She felt more than a little bad for lying, but it was necessary.

"They were just children," Roy said when Winry left.

Riza didn't say, "I'm sorry," because she had nothing to apologise for. She didn't say, "It's going to be all right," because it wouldn't be. She didn't even say, "It wasn't your fault," because it was. Instead she said, "You gave them hope when they had none, sir. I think they would rather have died this way than any other."

"I'd rather they died whole," Roy muttered, going to touch Al's headstone but pausing when he caught sight of his gloves. Stripping them off, he put them in his back pocket while he crouched in front of the grave. Riza would have retreated a few steps, left him alone, but he motioned for her to stay. "You know something, Major Hawkeye?"

"Sir?"

"I didn't know Alphonse."

"Sir?"

He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm thinking of Alphonse, and you know? Even though his restoration was Fullmetal's main goal in life, I can't remember much but a timid voice and a huge, grey presence."

"He liked cats," Riza found herself saying, and bit her lip when she heard herself say it. "He was a brave, kind person," she continued, quietly. "He was also a capable fighter. But I don't think he'd want to be remembered for that, sir."

"Not 'sir', not today." Roy said, softly. "Ah, yes, Alphonse and his cats. I remember Ed's combat assessment- he wanted me to take in a kitten his brother had 'rescued' if he won, rather than throwing it back out onto the street, as well as the information on Dr Marcoh." Roy permitted himself a small 'heh'. "Fullmetal always seemed so sharp. Who'd've known he had a soft side?"

"It was there," Riza said. "You could see it around Alphonse."

Roy nodded slowly, stepping away from the gravestones. Riza held his coat out for him, and as he put it on, something seemed to occur to him. "It's odd," he said, toying with the collar. "When I think of Edward, two things really stand out."

"Si-Fuhrer?"

The small smile he gave her was indulgent but warm. "Call me Roy, Major Hawkeye. You've known me for long enough."

"Only if you agree to call me Riza," she replied without thinking, then wished she could bite back her insubordinate words.

"Sounds good...Riza," Roy said, with a grin. The grin faded as he turned back to look at the cold stone with the small plaque commemorating the final resting place of Edward Elric. "You liar," he told the headstone. "What was it you said? 'I will not die before you do, Colonel shit!'" he sighed, shaking his head. "Hughes reported that back to me with such glee, too. Really, Fullmetal. I suppose you're about as honest as you are tall." He smiled, inclined his head to the headstone, and turned back to Riza. "Let's go back," he said. "We have a train to catch."

As they pulled away from the station, Winry and Pinako Rockbell waving at them from the platform, it occurred to Riza to ask, "what was the other thing you mentioned you remembered about Edward, Si- Roy?" And God, it felt _odd_ using his name.

Roy looked down at his gloved hands, resting quietly in his lap. "Do you remember? Before the Tucker case, Barry the Chopper got another victim, and Edward was there when we found the corpse?"

"He fainted," Riza said. "Brigadier-General Gran had a wonderful time with that. 'The Military doesn't need State Alchemists who fall apart at a little bit of blood. Toughen him up, Colonel Mustang, or take him out.'" She carried on polishing her gun, the only sign of her irritation the sharp horizontal swipes along the barrel rather than the vertical strokes she usually used.

Roy nodded. "Thank God that bastard's dead," he said cheerfully, "and I can say that now, since I'm Fuhrer. Heh." he permitted himself a smirk, and Riza didn't even bother to hide her smile. "But..." and his tone was pensive as he looked out the window again, at the rolling fields and hills. "I was the one who picked Edward up and took him to the car." he sighed, fingers twisting together. "He was surprisingly heavy-I suppose that was the automail, since he was still small enough for me to pick up. His face was pressed into my shoulder, and I could hear him whimpering. The position of that corpse seems to have reminded him of something..."

"What?" Riza asked, the cloth stilling for a few seconds, looking up. "What did he say?"

"He was calling to his mother," Roy said softly, not looking at her. "'Mom. Mom, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, I didn't mean it.' Of course, if he ever found out I'd heard that, I think he might have killed me," he added.

Riza felt a brief stab of pity grip her, and pushed it away. Edward had been strong. He had refused to cave in to his own demons, and pity would have been furiously rejected. "It makes sense," she said, resuming her cleaning. "He had two automail limbs. He must've been too used to the sight of his own blood to faint at the corpse alone."

Roy nodded. "I teased him mercilessly while he worked for me, to keep him sharp. He hated it. Probably hated me, too." He smirked. "He needed it, though. Especially in the Tucker case."

Riza tilted her head at him. "What did you say to him, by the way? In that alley?"

Roy looked her in the eye, and smiled. "True things."

"I see." Let him be cryptic if he wanted. There were more important things to deal with. "Do you want me to tell the rest of your staff, sir? In private, I mean?"

"Roy-not-sir," he corrected on one breath, and smiled at her curt nod. "No. I will tell them all myself. Don't worry about that, Riza." And yes, it felt just as weird to hear him using her name. She shifted her weight on the seat, and instantly felt that something was wrong. A brief reversal of the motion revealed that someone had slipped something into her breast pocket. She dipped a hand in and fished it out, glancing up at Roy to see him gazing out the window again.

That was odd. A bit of tissue wrapped around something hard, and she didn't even need to read he note Winry- for it could only be she- had stuck to the tissue to know it was Ed's silver pocket watch. She read the note anyway; Winry simply wrote that she thought the military would have more use for it than Ed did, but it was Riza's to do with as she would. Riza looked up at Roy, smiled, and called "catch," before pitching the watch across the seats. "Miss Rockbell managed to slip it into my pocket before I got on the train. Quite the nimble-fingered young lady, isn't she...?"

"You say that like you're old," Roy shot back, holding the watch firmly in his palm. "We'll have to thank her one day," he added, in a quieter tone of voice.

Riza nodded, and smiled abruptly. "Rest in peace, Elric brothers," she said, and Roy murmured along with her.

* * *

It was snowing when Riza pulled the keys out of the ignition, throwing the door open. "It's not too late for you to learn to drive, sir," she said, tugging the collar of her standard-issue black trench coat up.

"You know what they say about us old dogs and new tricks, Riza," Mustang replied grandiosely, pulling his cap over his head, partially to stop himself from getting cold and mostly so that he wouldn't have to meet Riza's glare.

"I would hardly call you an 'old dog', sir," she replied, a hint of a smile ghosting her face. More jeeps were pulling up behind them, car doors slamming. There was a hint of movement that went against the grain of the snow just ahead of them. "Someone's coming."

"Anyone we know?" Roy asked, too used to her skills to ask her how the hell she'd known.

Major Havoc, flanked by Major Ross and First Lieutenant Broche, stomped up to them and saluted. He'd gone with the advance negotiation squad, along with Breda, Farman, and Fury. Riza couldn't help but notice that he was wearing what appeared to be half a bear chopped into both bulky coat and hat. He'd pulled his scarf low to make room for his trademark cigarette.

"Major," Roy said carefully-the snow melting on the fur was beginning to make it smell highly unpleasant. "You appear to be wearing some rather unorthodox outdoor apparel..."

"Nah," Havoc said dismissively. "Farman came from up here, y'know. He called his brother-in-law at North HQ and got a list of things to remember, then dragged us 'round the Rulingrad flea market as soon as we arrived. Goes down to minus forty at night, you know," he added, grinning through the smoke. "The smell's worth it. Sir."

"I'll remember that," Roy replied, sticking his hands in his pockets. He wore thicker gloves than normal today, his sole concession to the weather. Riza could see the flame array on the backs, however, and knew that though the material may be thicker, their effectiveness was not lessoned. "So, judging by the fact that you called for reinforcements, the negotiations failed?"

The grin fell from Havoc's face. "They shot Fury," he replied. "Only once, and it wasn't in a fatal area, but it was enough to get their point across."

"What are their demands?" Roy asked, the 'Fuhrer expression' coming onto his face. It was Riza's name for the deadly serious look Roy wore when he had a difficult problem to solve.

"They want Yikatrinburg. And Rulingrad. They want North HQ and all other military personnel north of Tommensky evacuated."

"Tommensky is only a hundred miles north of Central. They're getting more demanding each year." Riza said, clasping her hands together behind her back. Roy nodded.

"This has always been a troubled region; this time it's a hostage situation. There are three million people in Yikatrinburg. They claim to have planted bombs all over the city, and they aren't letting anyone in or out. The people are starving, close to performing rebellion by themselves. They don't care who they belong to, Amestris or Drachma, as long as they get fed. Here are the Drachnian group's demands." Maria Ross dug into a pocket and found a folded piece of paper, which she handed to Roy with a grave expression. He unfolded it, read the first few lines, and snorted.

"They must be mentally addled if they think I'll agree to any of this," he said, scrunching the paper up and throwing it a few feet away into a snow bank. "This time I won't make any concessions," he added. "They threaten an entire city, injured someone who worked with me for a long time, are trying to blackmail me with inaccurate information and want me to pay them to let us retreat in safety- and think I'm going to let them go?"

Havoc snapped a sharp salute. "Sir."

"I'm going to the hospital. I need to speak to Fury. Ross, find Farman and Colonel McQueen of the advance and send them to me, Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye, please do the same with General Armstrong. Then I want you to take over these troops. I want schools evacuated to use as a temporary HQ. Fill up North if they have space. Organise the military police, too, recruit the civilian police force if you must. Ross, help Hawkeye. Havoc-"

"Sir?"

"You and Breda can go buy me some winter coats. Something stylish, please, in black."

"Sir..." Jean managed to refrain from sighing in disbelief until Roy was out of sight, at least. "General Armstrong can be found in the mess hall, by the way, along with Colonel McQueen. It used to be the university cafeteria. Follow the main street. Ask the locals if you get stuck, they're all mostly bilingual. And not surprisingly, very unfriendly. Maybe you should go with Major Ross?"

"Thank you," Riza said with a sidelong glance at Maria, who simply shrugged. "I'll do that. Have you got a weapon?"

"Don't mention it. And yeah, got a standard issue pistol."

"Have you needed it yet?"

Havoc took a long drag on his cigarette and said, "No. And that's the most disturbing part about this entire thing."

"I see. Thank you for the warning, Major Havoc." She saluted him with a hint of a smile, and he did the same in return. He watched her leave, and when Denny Broche went to follow, he grabbed the blond by the shoulder. "Not so fast, you. We need someone to help us carry the Fuhrer's stuff..." It was almost worth being used as a personal shopper to see Broche's sigh of resignation. "Good start, kid. Now help me find Breda."

* * *

" 'Something stylish in black?' " Breda said helplessly.

The stallholder blinked at him, said something incomprehensible, and tugged at one of the fur-lined coats hanging on the rack behind him.

"...It'll do," Havoc said, holding out a fistful of notes. The stall keeper counted them out, beamed them a smile, and took the coat off the rail. He stuffed it into a brown paper bag, still talking in his own little language, which bore no relation to any Havoc had heard before. He smiled at the little man anyway, said "thanks" and thrust the bag at poor Broche, who made tried to make room for it amidst the similar bags he clutched and ended up dropping them all on his feet. Breda crouched down to help him while Havoc lit another cigarette. He looked around the small market, with the brightly coloured canopies of the little stalls flapping in the wind, and his fellow shoppers.

A boy standing in front of another stall was watching him, curiously, so Havoc stared back. The boy had dark blond hair, darker than Broche's, and bronze eyes. He was taller than the average person in this area, and his facial structure and skin colour marked him as being a foreigner. Havoc grinned at him through the cigarette smoke and dropped his gaze to the stall behind the boy, which was piled high with paint pots, brushes, blank canvasses, pencils, charcoals and paintings. The boy bit his lip abruptly, perhaps realizing he'd been staring, and turned back to the stall, pointing out several items. The stallholder joked with him as though he was a regular customer, and Havoc was intrigued. The people of Rulingrad and the other northern towns and cities were notoriously xenophobic; this boy must have been here a long time. The woman bagged some blank canvasses, some paints and a few brushes for him, and he handed her another bag. She emptied it out on her lap, peered at the contents, bit her lip and held up five fingers. The boy nodded, and she pushed a handful of money over to him. He thanked her with a grin and an elaborate bow, tucked the bag under his arm, and headed over to the stall besides the art one, which sold boots.

Havoc felt there was something familiar about the boy, but he couldn't quite place it. Reminding himself that Roy hadn't specified what winter clothes to buy, and good boots were damn handy in this weather, he headed over to the very same stall. The young woman who sat behind it smiled at him.

"I'm looking for some good boots for a Central size 36?" he asked, and she shrugged her shoulders and said something in Drachnian. The boy had been watching him sidelong, and now he rattled off a string of fluid Drachnian. Havoc only managed to catch the word "Central". The girl beamed and replied.

"She asks what they need to be good for," the boy said. And yes, he had a Central accent, a bit distorted after some time spent here, but not by much.

"The usual. They need to be sturdy with a good grip for walking in snow, as well as keeping feet dry," he replied via his unexpected translator. She found a few for him, and Havoc picked up some heavy black knee-high ones that weren't too different from the military issue boots, but lined with fleece, and paid her. "Thanks, kid."

"It's all right," they boy replied, and Havoc held up a gloved hand.

"Major Jean Havoc. I'm with the military. Feel free to run screaming."

The boy laughed, though Jean noted that there was a vague hint of...worry? "I'm Alex. Alexander Edwards. I'm a part-time librarian at the university." He stuttered a little over his name, but the smile on his face didn't waver, and when he shook Jean's hand his grip was firm and steady.

"Ah? Seems we've given you a long holiday, then."

"Mmmm. If only it were paid," Alex said with a sigh, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Sorry about that. Cigarette?"

"No thanks, I don't smoke. So, how long d'you think this is going to take?""

"To be honest, I don't know," Jean sighed, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "We thought we could argue with them, but they made their stance clear on the matter. Shot Cain Fury, a man I've worked with for years."

"Is he dead?"

Jean paused, surprised by the worry in Alexander's voice. Well, he was an artist and a librarian; if Elysia and Sheiszka were anything to go by, they were all bleeding hearts. "No. In hospital. They didn't aim to kill."

"Bastards."

"They been bothering you?"

"Yeah, but not much. A few marches through the streets, open-air assemblies, posters on walls. Door to door arguing. They knocked on my door three days ago. 'Would you like to help our cause to make this region part of the great Drachma?'"

"What did you do?"

Alexander laughed. "It was six o'clock in the morning. I'm not capable of getting up until eleven, or coherent speech until at least one. Not without caffeine, anyway." Jean laughed, recognising the feeling. "My b- my boyfriend got the door for me," Alexander added, blushing furiously.

Jean wondered why he'd slipped on the word "boyfriend," but decided the kid hadn't hung around any of the more...interesting bars when he was in Central. "I take it he's not a nice person either?"

"Oh God, he's worse in the mornings, just more coherent and with better aim," Alexander said with a fond laugh, a little bit of the blush receding from his cheeks. "Needless to say, they won't be coming by again any time soon."

Breda joined them then, Broche trailing behind. Jean briefly introduced them to Alexander then said, "I should be getting on. Gotta look for clothes for my boss, he's too lazy to do it himself. Nice talking to you, Alexander, and thanks for your help."

"No problem," Alexander replied, holding out a hand. Jean shook it with a warm grin. "I know how hard it is to fit in here. Word of caution, don't drink the tap water."

"Hmmm?" Jean paused in the process of lighting another cigarette. "Why's that?"

"Bacteria. Foreigners get sick from it. Nothing fatal, just nasty stomach cramps." Alexander briefly rubbed his lower abdomen, pulling a face. "_Really_ nasty stomach cramps."

Jean laughed. "Thanks for the warning, kid. I'll pass it on to the Fuhrer when we get back to base."

Alexander tilted his head sharply, bronze eyes widening. "The Fuhrer? Fuhrer Mustang, the Flame Alchemist? He's _here_?"

Jean rolled the cigarette slowly around his mouth, eyeing the kid carefully. That was the thing with these terrorists and this city; they could be anyone. But...Alexander looked a little too...innocent to be one of those Drachnian terrorists, and Jean didn't think his earlier disgust with them was faked. And it wasn't like Roy couldn't take care of himself... "Yeah," he said. "Why? Hero worship?" He grinned at Alexander through his cigarette smoke, and the kid's shoulders slumped.

"Heh. Sort of. I'm an alchemist myself, you know."

"Heeeeeh? Any good?"

"Yeah," the boy quipped with a slightly sarcastic grin. "I'm the next Fullmetal Alchemist."

Jean took the cigarette out of his mouth. "Edward Elric was very good," he said. "He's also very dead."

"I'm not like him," Alexander replied with a shrug.

Jean pretended to look him over critically. "No, you're alive," he said, and smiled a little sadly.

"And that's a relief," Alexander laughed, shifting his bag onto his other hand. "I should go. Good luck finding what you need. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Havoc."

"You too, kid. See you around." He waved at Alexander's back as the kid walked off, then stubbed the stump of his cigarette out.

"What was that all about?" Breda asked.

"The kid's a liar," Jean said with a shrug. "I don't think he's a terrorist, but he has something he doesn't want us to know. We should finish up and get back to base; I want to see if there really is an 'Alexander Edwards' working for the University."

As they passed the art stall, Havoc was distracted by the painting the stall keeper was setting out. A blonde woman with her hair pinned up, holding a black and white puppy in her arms and dressed in the uniform of a First Lieutenant, staring fearlessly out of the picture. It was a very good painting, but that didn't disturb Havoc as much as the "AE"of the artist's signature in the bottom right corner.

"How much money do we have left?" he demanded.

"Enough to buy that painting," Breda replied, following his line of sight.

"Good. Mustang's gonna want to see this."

* * *

Ed was lying face down on the couch, reading, when Alphonse came in, the towel wrapped loosely around his hips the only article of clothing he wore. "Close the door, it's bloody freezing," he complained, not looking up from his newspaper. Al obeyed, dumping his bag by the door and yanking his coat off in quick, uneasy motions, and it was this that finally got Edward's attention. "Al? What's wrong?"

"I bought some more paints and a few more canvasses," Alphonse said, realizing his voice sounded unsteady and hating it.

"That's what you said you were going to do. What happened?" Ed swung off the couch, pausing only to secure the towel around his hips, and came closer.

Alphonse stripped off his boots, turned, and buried his face in Ed's automail shoulder, wrapping his arms around his brother's back. "Hey," Edward murmured, threading the fingers of his living hand through Al's hair, "what happened?"

It took Al a few seconds to realise he was practically sobbing, his chest heaving with the huge dry gasps of air that came with crying, but though his eyes stung, no tears came. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrated on the warmth of his brother, the smell of soap and coffee and ink and books and all the other relaxing scents that came along with the sharp smell of raw Edward. He took a few more of those heavy, gasping breaths, feeling Ed's breathing against the side of his neck and Ed's automail around his back, and said into the cool steel of Ed's shoulder, "Roy's here."

"Oh," Ed said quietly, his left hand continuing to stroke Al's hair. "Maybe you should tell me what happened. From scratch."

So Al told him, told him about meeting Havoc and wanting to help, and about all the slips he'd made in the conversation, and the suspicion in Havoc's eyes whenever he did so. He was _shaking_, he realised, and felt stupid for doing so, but he'd been _that_ highly strung through the entire conversation. "He'll probably go to the University and ask to see my file," he said. "My file has your picture on it, too. And if that weren't bad enough, I sold the painting I did of Riza to Natalya. You know, the pawnbroker stroke artist? Her stall is right next to the one Havoc was at. He must have seen it; Natalya always puts out my paintings whenever she gets them." He broke off with another wrenching breath, whispering, "I'm sorry. I know you said you didn't want to leave. I'm so sorry."

Ed kissed the top of his head, like he had sometimes when Al was small and had tripped over, skinning his knees. He pushed Al back onto the couch, straddling his brother's thighs. "Al. It's okay. It is. Don't worry, all right?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Al demanded, raising his face. His eyes burned and he rubbed at them, refusing to cry over something as simple as the end of their quiet, peaceful life. "They'll know, brother, they'll-"

"Your file's all fake, isn't it?" Ed said, gently. "I know it is, I faked it, and your passport, myself. Fake birth date, fake issue number, fake identification code," and he dropped a kiss against the hollow of Al's throat, "fake name, fake birth place, fake _everything_-"

"Except the photograph," Alphonse whispered as Ed's hands began to open the buttons of his shirt. "And yours-"

"Also fake," Ed said with a shrug, casting Al's shirt onto the floor behind him. "_Even_ the photograph." He cupped Al's jaw with his left hand, leaning forward to kiss his mouth as his automail hand began to unbutton Al's pants.

"But- the painting-" Alphonse whispered, catching Ed's metal wrist. "It's not so much the name- A. E is a fairly common initial- but the subject- "

His brother smiled, golden eyes half-lidded with something like amusement. "Simple," he muttered softly, sitting back on his haunches, left hand covering Al's over his wrist. "It was a gift from your boyfriend."

"And if they want to meet my boyfriend?" Al asked softly, releasing Ed to undo the knot of the towel around his brother's hips.

"He's out of town, stealing things from the backs of trains," Edward purred, leaning forward to kiss Alphonse again.

Al ducked. "This plan is stupid! It's badly thought out, makes no sense and I can't do it," he growled. "I'm sorry, brother, but it won't work! I can't lie to save my life!"

Ed shrugged. "We could always hop town again," he offered. "We could try somewhere in the West for once. Or somewhere near Dublith; Sensei would never betray us to the military."

"Sensei would find out, though," Alphonse said quietly. "About...us. And what we do. She wouldn't approve, nobody would. They'd separate us, and if that meant selling you back to the military, even Winry might do it."

Ed kissed him, fiercely, passionately, and possessively. Al wasn't surprised. Even talking about being taken away from his brother, or having his brother taken away from him, made him flinch closer, running his hands down Ed's back.

"I won't let them," Ed whispered against Al's collarbone, breaking off the kiss.

"I know," Al replied, brushing his jaw over the top of Ed's head, pulling his brother closer. "I love you," he whispered into Ed's hair.

Ed said nothing, but Al could feel his brother's mouth stretching into a grin against his skin.

They held each other like that until sundown, until the windows along the wall of the room flooded them with red and gold. Ed broke the embrace first, complaining of kinks in his spine, and Al dipped his head and kissed his brother's chin with a smirked, "stop complaining and get off me, my legs feel dead."

Ed obliged, standing and stretching, and Al was made acutely aware of his brother's nakedness as the unfastened towel slid off Ed's body, pooling around his feet. "We still haven't worked out what to do," Ed said over his shoulder. "Come on. We can discuss it later."

"What're we doing now, then?" Al asked, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Ed didn't do anything so crass as to look down at his brother's body, but simply smiled and said, "guess," tugging Al into their bedroom.

Alphonse knew that it was a pretty serious problem they'd uncovered, but he was willing to allow himself to be distracted. If necessary, they could skip the entire sleeping thing and go from sex to skipping town, like they'd done so many times before.

He was starting to see what Ed meant when his brother said he was fed up with always running away, but this place...well, this place felt like _home_, but would he stay here if it meant being harassed by the military? All he wanted was a peaceful life with his brother, especially since their relationship had taken _this_ little turn for... well, the better, really, but how many others would see it like that? How many would see it, and them, as anything other than foul, perverted and wrong? Could he kill to protect this life, Alphonse wondered, as Ed's head ducked between his legs; would he kill to protect this life, to protect them?

Yes, he realised with a sharp, almost painful twist in his stomach, as he ran his hands through the silky softness of Ed's hair, directing his brother's mouth to where he wanted it. He could, and he would.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Enjambement  
**Author:** Kaltia  
**Notes:** This fic contains spoilers for episde 25.

* * *

"I think," Jean said carefully, holding Alexander Edwards' personal file between his gloved fingertips, "this has been tampered with."

"How so?" Breda asked, still waiting by the door of the university's small secretarial office.

"Alchemy. I think. We should probably ask a State Alchemist to have a look at it." Jean slipped it into a plastic bag, and nodded at the nervous women standing in front of her desk. "Thanks for your help, ma'am, we're just borrowing this for a while."

She nodded nervously, and Havoc tipped her a smile and a wink. His mind was on something other than flirting, however; alchemical tampering with this particular file, not to mention the portrait with the same initials, had given him a sneaking suspicion. It wasn't fully formed, and he knew if he mentioned it to anyone he'd be ridiculed, but at the same time he felt like he was close. Alexander had reminded him forcefully of someone familiar in the market place, but he couldn't quite think who. There wasn't enough evidence to point out that the boy had done anything wrong, yet, let alone to order him arrested and questioned, so he'd decided to investigate more thoroughly.

Breda strode with him down the corridor, nodding innocently at the soldiers who passed them occasionally. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asked, "have you shown anyone the portrait yet?"

"I might show Farman," Havoc said, quietly. "I want it dated. If it's old, it's still odd but a lot easier to explain, but if it's recent..."

"I don't understand," Breda complained.

"If the signature is indeed that of Alexander Edwards, it might be something he painted when he was still in Central. You have to admit, the Lieutenant Colonel does make a striking sight. Maybe she even posed for it. But if it's recent..."

"It could be from memory," Breda said with a small frown.

"Could be," Havoc agreed. "But you'd have to have known someone well to be able to paint them from memory, especially when you've been in this town for at least two years. The date he started working here was on his form," he added when Breda shot him a curious glance.

"Of course, it might not even be the same person."

"Maybe not, but the file _has_ been changed, and that means there's something he doesn't want us to know. So, I want to find out," he said. "The style of the type in the printed sections of his background and his family sections is off, and some parts of them don't match up- he's listed himself down as being 'single', on his personal information form, but on his background it says he's living with his 'partner of five years'. That's it, though. I think it's been done alchemically because it's too good to be a common forgery." They emerged in the cafeteria, and blinked at the unusual amount of people gathered there.

"What's going on?" Breda demanded loudly, but though he got a few confused glances from people nearby, nobody bothered to explain.

Jean spotted Maria Ross standing demurely by the far wall, Danny Broche beside her. He made his way over, squeezing past clusters of people, all of whom were engaged in some good old-fashioned whinging- which, along with all that damn paperwork, made up three quarters of military activities.

"Have you heard?" Maria offered by way of greeting.

"No, just got here. What happened?"

"You just missed the Fuhrer's announcement. We start moving on Yikatrinburg in five hours."

"What bought that on?" Breda demanded. "I thought we were going to sit tight until they lost their nerve and either blew us up or ran away."

"So did I," Maria said with a frown. "Something must have happened, though."

Havoc reviewed the last two hours since Mustang's arrival. "He went to speak to Fury, then to General Armstrong and Colonel McQueen. They must've told him something which made him change his mind."

"Eh, maybe they threatened us," Broche said with a shrug.

"Maybe. We'll probably get a better explanation later. Either that or some snapped fingers and one of his, 'don't interrupt me, I'm plotting world domination!' speeches." Havoc said with a knowing grin. "Well, I'd better get moving. I'll probably be in Hawkeye's squadron, and she'll _kill_ me if I'm not where I'm supposed to be."

Ross grinned at him. "I don't need to say "good luck", do I?"

"Only to Breda - he forgets these things."

"Piss off, Jean."

They laughed, because it was better than thinking about what lay ahead. Jean was a hardened soldier- God, he'd survived Ishbal- but it was that moment, the bit where you stepped into enemy territory for the first time, that always unnerved him. The tension could be maddening. Anything could be waiting for you with cities, too; guerrilla warfare was a bitch, only slightly better than trenches.

As he skulked towards the encampment he'd been assigned to, on the east side of the city, he felt the borrowed file press against his ribcage. Damn. Alexander and his secrets would have to wait.

* * *

The loud knock on the door roused Alphonse, who flopped pitifully and slammed his pillow over his head. "Brother," he complained sleepily, "tell them to go away."

"No bloody way," Ed muttered. He had been curled against the warmth of Al's back, but now he stretched and nudged his brother into sitting up. "It could be the military. You answer the door, I'm gonna leave. Call me back if it's okay." Their bathroom window overlooked the roof of the house next door, and thus made a perfect escape route for someone as athletic as Edward.

"Do the military ever knock?" Al asked, pulling himself over to the edge of the bed. "Eh. Where are my pants?" Ed threw them at him and left the room, and the knocking got even louder. It was starting to sound like someone was trying to play some sort of heavy drum solo with his door knocker. "I'm COMING! Let me get dressed, already!"

Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised that it was Winry on his doorstep, toolbox over her shoulder, looking just as pissed as he felt. "What took you so long?" she demanded, stepping in and looking around. "And where's your obnoxious brother?"

"He jumped out the bathroom window when he heard you knocking," Alphonse snapped, shutting the door behind her. Winry stared at him for a couple of minutes before her corners of her thunderous scowl twitched, and she began to laugh.

"That's one way to avoid automail maintenance," she said between giggles, bent double with the force of her laughter, her hands on her knees. Al felt his own black mood slip a little and cracked his first smile of the day- and he hadn't even had his coffee yet.

"I don't know, it depends how he landed. If he's damaged it, we'd have to fight over who gets to kill him...Hmm. Want something to drink? We don't have any white sugar, though."

"Tea, please. If he damaged anything, we can share; I'd kill him for not appreciating my work and you'd kill him for wasting your money," she said with a wry grin as Alphonse filled the kettle up. "I'll go fetch him. Where is he?"

"I told you, he jumped out the bathroom window," Al said, stifling a yawn as he put the kettle on the stove. The pants were Ed's, and, though he would never point it out to his brother, they were far too small. He peered down at his exposed ankles and pursed his lips, wanting very much to go change. "I'll just go call him. It's...um...two whistles for 'Winry', I think."

"You even have a code?" Winry asked, an expression of amusement creeping across her face.

"His fault. I was painting and he was bored."

Ed was to be found lurking directly under the window ledge, difficult to spot either from the bathroom or the road in front of the building. He'd grabbed his boxers before his impromptu exit and a pair of socks, but they were the only items of clothing he wore. Al frowned at the sight, reminded that winter was approaching and they'd have to start leaving a coat in the bathroom or something, otherwise Edward might freeze to death. "Brother, it's Winry," he called, offering his left arm to Ed to let him climb back in. "You should have put on some shorts or something," he said with a frown, looking his brother up and down. "You look..."

"I know," Ed snarled, but he was shivering as he did so, and Al couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed. Edward's clothes, abandoned after his shower last night, were scattered over the bathroom floor, and Al picked them up and sniffed them to test their freshness.

"Ugh. We need to do the washing," he said with absolutely no enthusiasm. "Whose turn is it?"

"Yours," Ed said, already wandering into their bedroom to raid their chest of drawers. Al sighed and returned to the living room, where the kettle was just finished boiling, to find Winry in the process of apparently emptying out his kitchen shelves onto the floor.

"Where'd you keep the tea bags?" she asked, digging through an overhead cupboard. Al lifted the lid on a small pot by the kitchen sink and peered thoughtfully at the contents.

"Brother, did we buy green tea or is that mould?"

"Probably mould, Winry's the only one who drinks the damn stuff," Ed replied, emerging from the bedroom as he did so. "Hey there."

"...I am definitely taking you two shopping. Until then, I'll have coffee," Winry said, still kneeling on the kitchen counter but now staring in horrified fascination at the green teabags in the pot. "And 'hey' yourself, Ed." She shifted until her legs were dangling over the side of the counter, watching Ed take a seat close to the fire. "So, how's life been for you two lately?"

"Fine," Al said, pouring carefully. "I had a moment of disaster yesterday when I met Jean Havoc in the market-place, but that's about it, and judging from the fact that Fuhrer Mustang hasn't burned the door down so far, we're okay."

"Ah. I heard he was coming here before I left Central. That's why I'm late- the trains only go as far as North City at the moment."

"How'd you get here, then? Drove?" Ed asked, and Al slid his cup of coffee across the table towards him.

"I was planning to get off at North City, hire a car, and go from there to here. But- thanks, Al, this coffee looks good and more importantly, _safe_- North City has a population of essentially three men. And a goat."

"So you stole the goat?"

"Ed," Winry said, narrowing her eyes warningly. Ed grinned but didn't follow that comment up with anything about the _uses_ of said goat, for which Al was grateful; Winry's favourite wrench was never far away, and he wasn't paying for the blood to be cleaned out of the carpet... "No, I walked. Seven miles. To some large-ish town whose name I can't even pronounce, let alone spell, and got a lift from a doctor who also had family here. _Seven miles_! Now don't you dare say I don't make an effort for you," she growled, jabbing a finger at Ed, who contrived to look innocent.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied cheerfully, taking a sip of his coffee and lidding his eyes blissfully against the steam. "Mmmph. Thanks, Al, this is good."

Alphonse had found a nearly-fresh loaf of bread in the bread bin and was sawing it into slices. "It's okay," he said without looking around. "Winry, do you want some toast?"

"Um... sure," the girl replied, pushing herself off the kitchen side and standing behind Ed, beginning to run her hands over the edge of the port. "Do you have any jam?"

"Strawberry or raspberry," Ed said, still clutching his coffee tightly. "And some cherry spread in the cupboard to your left, Al. I'll have the strawberry today."

"I'll take the cherry," Winry called, distractedly prodding Edward's shoulder. "Stretch out your arm. No, you don't have to let go of the coffee, idiot. Hmmm."

"This would be much easier if I was lying down, you know," Ed pointed out.

"Yes, but I need to see you using it before I can see what needs doing. You should know that by now. Twist your arm for me."

Al put three slices of bread in a skillet and stuck them on the stove, where the kettle had been a few seconds before. He ambled around the small kitchen, finding plates, knives and the two requested jams, and tried not to watch Winry pulling Edward's cold steel limb around. He couldn't help but feel guilty about recovering his perfect human body while Ed still had his automail, though Ed had assured him repeatedly that it was okay and that he didn't mind being like he was- in fact, had viciously stomped on any of Al's efforts to try and fix his brother's body. "It was you who we needed to restore, not me," Ed had snapped during one particularly heated argument.

"I made a _promise_, brother!" Al had replied, just as stubbornly. "What use are my promises if you won't let me keep them?" The expression that had appeared on Ed's face when he said that, the hurt and fear and love all mixed together, had stopped Al's efforts with human transmutation quicker than any of their arguing had. The knowledge that Edward was _scared_- terrified, even- of losing his little brother had been like a splash of cold water to the face. That day had also been the first day Edward had kissed Alphonse with any passion, unlike the usual platonic kisses on his cheeks and forehead before bed, though Al suspected Ed had been itching to do so long before he got his body back.

"Hmmm," Winry said through her teeth, drawing his attention back to the now. He turned the bread in the skillet, grateful that they were only well-toasted rather than charcoal black, and listened with half an ear to Winry's diagnosis. "I think it's a bit too loose here, and the bolts at the elbow are too tight in contrast. And you've done something very weird to the thumb. I'll have a look at your leg after we go shopping, but mostly I think your arm just needs a few tweaks here and there. Like last time."

"The knee's been locking randomly. I think it may be rusting slightly."

"Ed-_waard_! I tell you every time to oil it more often! This should teach you to listen!"

Alphonse bought the now-finished toast out and put it onto the table, watching Winry flex Ed's elbow joint, a thoughtful expression on her face. Ed tossed his little brother a long-suffering grin and reached for the food, his fingers brushing a few inches shy of the plate, and Al stalled any more efforts by handing him a slice. The silence must have grating on Winry's nerves, because presently she tried to initiate conversation. "So, what would you two be doing today if I wasn't here?"

"I'd be working," Al replied with a shrug. "The military have taken over the university, though."

"At least you still have your painting," Ed pointed out, clenching his teeth as Winry unhooked his arm to examine the efficiency of the port.

"Hold on, you've got something in here. Al, could you fetch me a clean cloth from my bag? Thanks. Um. Oil? Ed! I _told_ you back when you first got the arm I _painstakingly_ crafted; too much oil can be as bad as not enough! Clean up after yourself better, lazy!"

"I do! Ngh- OW, Winry- I mean," Ed snapped, and Alphonse uncrossed his arms to come and hover behind his brother, hand resting on Ed's flesh shoulder, "I do clean up any excess oil, but it's _impossible_ to look _inside_ my own automail port!"

"Then I'll do it for you, brother," Al said quietly, cutting Winry's reply off before she could make it. "All you had to do was ask. You don't have to do everything by yourself, you know."

Ed shut his mouth sharply against an automatic protest and nodded thoughtfully. Winry smiled at the pair of them and shook her head, gripping Ed's other shoulder as she pushed his arm back into the port. Ed yelped, half from the familiar pain and half at the unexpectedness of its arrival, and might have leapt off the chair if Al hadn't braced him, wrapping one arm around his chest and pushing down firmly on the living shoulder. Ed slumped in his brother's grip, panting softly as he waited for the after burn to fade. "Thanks, Al," Winry said, wiping her hands on the cloth she'd used to clean the port only seconds before, and threw it down on the table as she vanished into their bathroom. "Get dressed, the pair of you. I'm taking you guys shopping."

Ed pressed his head back against Al's chest and looked up into Al's eyes, managing a rueful smile. "Why are we still friends with her?"

"Because she does a lot for us, brother," Al replied, with a soft smile. He reluctantly released his brother and took a step towards their bedroom, turning a cocky grin on the bemused figure slumped on the chair and holding out a hand. "Come on. Tea isn't the only thing we need to buy."

"Wait - what? You mean -?"

"You must want to go outside, brother. You haven't been able to leave for two weeks. Come on. You can wear one of those bearskins, if you want," he added, grinning at Ed's unamused expression. His brother stood, however, catching Al's hand and allowing himself to be pulled through the door. Al pushed him back over the chest of drawers, kissing him deeply, and pulled away to fling open their wardrobe. Ed rested his elbows on the hard surface behind him and made no effort to move anywhere else, panting with a different sort of breathlessness. Al spared him a grin before leafing through the contents.

Hmm. There was Ed's old red coat, which his brother outright refused to throw away. There was its twin, the fabric a darker red, which Ed had made for him while he was still getting used to his body out of some spare fabric in Pinako Rockbell's attic. There was the fur-lined coat Ed had bought in Central and discovered was too large, which Al wore all the time now; he unhooked that one and threw it onto the bed. A little digging deeper in the recesses of the wardrobe revealed a slim wrap-around light grey trench coat. It wouldn't protect Ed from hypothermia, but it would keep him reasonably warm while being unremarkable enough that nobody would look at it twice.

A brief examination located a choice of a black bandana, one of those odd flat fur hats the locals wore, or a fleece-lined cap with ear-flaps. Ed wordlessly took the bandana, and Al twisted his brother's long golden hair into a low ponytail, securing his bangs behind his ears with a few hair clips, to allow him to wear it. It was only when he went looking for Ed's best pair of sunshades that he felt the anger bubble up in him. Ed must have noticed something was wrong when he took the dark glasses, unfolding the arms and sliding them on. "Don't worry about it," he said gently. "It's only for a little while."

"I know, brother," Al said quietly. "I just don't like it, that's all."

"Never said you had to," Ed replied, a little indifferently, as he tugged on the coat. With his hair out of his face and his gold eyes hidden behind the smoky lenses, he looked a lot less like Ed, but his skin was still too light for a true Northerner. Al bit his lip, but decided that he couldn't be bothered to mess around any more. "I'm ready, what about you?" Ed asked as he finished tugging on his gloves, his voice drawing Al's attention back to the fact that he still wore Ed's too-small pants and the scruffy t-shirt.

"Um. Yeah. You go ahead, I'll catch up."

"Don't take too long, Al," Ed said with a small smirk as he headed out. Al tugged on his own clothes, scowling. He knew the reason behind the secrecy, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He wished, vaguely, that they didn't have to hide, that they didn't have to run from their old friends, that they could walk down the street without fear. But then he thought of Ed's silver watch, and his brother in that encampment outside Lior, announcing in that toneless voice that he was a dog of the military, and they'd have to abandon their search for now, because the military called, and the Fullmetal Alchemist would have to obey. He thought of Ishbal and the tiny crack in Roy Mustang's mask every time he mentioned it. He thought of Tim Marcoh, spending his days in a mire of fear, and guilt.

He weighed the guilt against the fear, thought of Fullmetal as a separate entity, opposed to his brother, and was abruptly glad they'd killed off that part of Edward Elric before something nasty could happen to him.

* * *

Havoc pressed his back against the barricade, dropping his rifle across his knees and lighting a cigarette. He knew the old story about the match; first cigarette catches the sniper's eye, and all that, but he didn't think one more fire would be noticeable at the moment.

Half of downtown Yikatrinburg was on fire, burning fiercely. The flames lit up the night sky, and made it seem almost like midday. These fires hadn't been started by the Fuhrer, though; as soon as they could, the terrorists - this mysterious Drachnian, or pro- Drachnian, liberation group whose agenda remained a mystery behind bureaucratic jargon - had detonated the explosives they'd hidden over this segment of the city.

Havoc winced as another one went off, a house about four hundred metres down the street he and the rest of Hawkeye's squadron had barricaded. From the other end of the road came steady fire from an unknown source, but whoever they were, they were too far away, and the weapons they used too dated, to do more than dent the first layer of the barricade. Havoc counted to about five before popping his head over the top of the makeshift wall, aiming carefully, and with three squeezes of the trigger and three matching screams there was an abrupt ringing silence from that end of the road.

Hawkeye had them wait five minutes before leaving cover, rifles over their shoulders and pistols in hand. Farman dragged the communicator, the portable radio of Fury's own design, and through it they could hear the sounds of heavy fire, screams, shouted, breathless instructions and through it all, the hiss of the city-wide flames.

* * *

Roy hadn't been planning to use his gloves. He'd wanted to go with Hawkeye's squadron, borrowing a handgun and a sniper rifle; he didn't like firearms, but he'd rather kill that way than with his alchemy. Riza had stepped on that option, however, which was why he found himself in the communications and intelligence tent at the back of the fire-fight with Armstrong towering over him, and not for the first time, he cursed the woman. He listened carefully to the reports fired in through the radios or delivered by breathless sooty or bloody messengers, breathed easier every time Riza reported in, no matter what she said, and worried if he didn't hear her voice at the appointed intervals.

"Second street captured, Private Rupert Flint down, over."

He flinched, but steeled himself. This was Riza Hawkeye, Ishbal veteran, sniper rifle expert and veritable guru on firearm combat. She was surrounded by twenty others, all almost as good, and Jean Havoc, who was another Ishbal survivor. "Flame Alchemist to Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye - intelligence reports large group making its way towards you down Third Street. Let them wipe you out and I swear, you _will_ be post-humously demoted back to Private. Over."

"Understood, Flame. We will not die this day, over and out."

Armstrong said nothing as Roy paced back and forth, for which the man was obscurely grateful. He couldn't have put his finger on why he hated the thought of losing any more of his subordinates, though he would have blamed the deaths of Maes Hughes and Edward Elric if anyone had asked. He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to think of them, not now, when Riza and Havoc and Farman and Breda were in danger. He had lost too many friends, too many colleagues, and didn't like being this far away from those he had left when they might need his help.

A crackle of static, and a scream tore through the tent from the radio. Riza's voice could be heard shouting for a retreat, and Roy swivelled and made his way out. He was in the jeep waiting outside, with the ignition screeching to life, by the time Armstrong caught up to him. The man took one look at Roy's expression and climbed in the back, tossing the Fuhrer his own communicator. Roy smiled coldly, looking down at his gloved hands on the steering wheel, and jammed a foot down on the accelerator. As the jeep tore through burning, debris-laden streets, an image of Hughes' headstone rose to mind. It was paired with those two tiny graves, side by side, and an image of the broken suit of armour.

He would not lose anyone else.

* * *

He ascended the bottom stair, though he didn't need to do so to be higher than the people gathered in the little house. They clutched their weapons, staring up at him with nervous hope, and he permitted himself a slow nod. He raised his arms for silence, forcing his voice to new depths, infecting it with a proud resonance. "It has happened, like I said it would," he claimed, and saw nods in his audience. "The military, led by that foul Fuhrer, have invaded Yikatrinburg. We must fight! For Drachma, we must fight, and prevail! The Amestris army - a hoard of invading mongrels, led by a man so foul, he killed a seventeen year old boy - who trusted him implicitly! Who murdered thousands of innocents in Ishbal, yet still walks proudly amidst the innocent!"

Never mind that Edward Elric had committed suicide, and had, according to his informants, never really liked the man... for the adults in the audience, the knowledge that the man had murdered a child would be enough. And for the younger ones, the green boys clutching their stolen weapons so nervously, it served as a warning about what this man would do. Could do. _Roy Mustang kills people like you,_ he was saying. _Kill him and his men to defend your homes and your families!_

They bowed and poured out, weapons clutched in their hands, cheers and whoops and battle-cries streaming ahead of them. And many would die when the military eventually conquered Yikatrinburg, but this filthy hellhole was nothing. After wiping this city off the map, the Amestris army would be concentrated and unsuspecting in Rulingrad, and he knew he could take his revenge. Against the military, as a whole, and particularly the Flame Alchemist.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Enjambement (Part IV)  
**Author:** Kaltia  
**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to SquareEnix.   
**Beta:** Nanashiivy  
**Pairings:** Elricest, (possible) eventual RoyxRiza   
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Notes:** Main Entry: **en·jamb·ment**  
Pronunciation: _in-'jam-mont_  
Variant(s): or **en·jambe·ment**  
Function: _noun_  
: the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different lines.

* * *

Riza Hawkeye knelt over the wounded solider, examining the bullet wound in his thigh, and hissed dissaproval between her teeth. "Tourniquet," she said. "Give me your belt."

Havoc handed his own over as the soldier stirred weakly, eyes widening a little in recognition of the procedure. Riza didn't respond to the movement, looping the belt around the upper thigh and yanking harshly as she forced it to go as tight as she could. The rudimentary tourniquet would hold until they got the man back to field hospital, but there would be no saving his limb.

"How's the radio?"

"Still out," Farman replied, examining the wires at the base. "I think I've almost got it, though."

"Good." Riza straightened, dusting the tails of her military uniform down as though she were the high-ranking wife of some top brass at a garden party, rather than a soldier who had just lead her squadron through a vicious ambush and been forced to take shelter in an abandoned house on the fringes of enemy territory. "What's the status, Havoc?"

"Four down, three injured, including Private Fencer over there," Havoc said, running a hand through his hair and nodding towards the man they'd just tended to. "There's still more of the enemy lurking behind that wall over there, but they won't come out in the open and I can't get a clear shot."

She raised one of her favourite pistols and emptied the clip into the aforementioned wall. Two of their unseen followers leaped from cover, screaming, but Riza held her fire as they fled unarmed down the street. "Grenades," she said, reloading the weapon before slipping it back in the holster. "Anyone got any left?" A series of shaken heads revealed that no, they didn't. A brief examination of the wounded or dead soldiers located no grenades there, either. "All right. Farman, keep working at the radio. Major Havoc, Lieutenant Breda, Private Cruise, cover. I want Privates-"

The screech of a car tearing up the road cut her off. She grabbed her rifle, crouching by one of the south-facing windows, and peered through the scope as she traced its erratic path. "Lexington, Savage and Mitchell, cover Havoc. Sergeant Robin, Privates Greife and Falke, get over here, _now_! Don't make me have to _repeat_ myself, you lazy-"

Quite what the soldiers in question were would never be discovered, as a wave of fire blossomed from the oncoming car and crashed over and around the enemy encampment. Riza waved them back impatiently, hissing curses at stubborn, stupid and suicidal commanding officers who didn't even have the sense to know to trust their subordinates, and left the small building, dumping the rifle for her handgun.

She waved Havoc and a couple of other soldiers after her, understanding the point of not creeping up on the enemy alone. Riza circled the formerly concealing and now charcoal-stained wall, inching in front of the jeep, which had pulled to a stop, and found four alive and very scared young men. They promptly dropped their weapons and raised their hands above their heads; their faces and clothes covered in soot and eyebrows clean burnt off. The car doors slammed and Armstrong came to stand beside her, and she didn't look away from her captives as Mustang came to stand on the other side, glove raised and thumb pressed against his fingers, ready to snap. Riza kept her weapon targeted on the enemy youths as she asked, "General Armstrong, could you please disarm the POWs and secure them for the trip back to HQ?"

"Of course," he said, striding forwards. A moment later and with a crackle of alchemical charge, heavy stone manacles- formed from the walls of the buildings along the side of the road- weighed down the hands of the young terrorists.

"Get the injured to the jeep, men." A couple of Privates from her own squadron- Falke and Cruise- carried Fencer into the back seat of the car, and Mitchell, who'd sprained his ankle diving for safety when the fire fight began, climbed in after them. Savage loaded the last injured soldier in, and only when that was done did Riza turn to Roy. "Fuhrer, escort my men back to the field hospital, please. Savage, Falke, Cruise, if anything happens to the Fuhrer a court-martial will become the least of your worries. Am I understood?"

"Yes, MA'AM!"

Roy frowned, holding his hands up. "You can't expect me to leave you-"

"With your leave, sir, I think I am more than capable of remaining in this area in the company of the Strongarm Alchemist and the rest of my squadron," Riza said icily, drawing herself up and crossing her arms over her chest as she spoke. She was careful not to let him see how angry she was at him for his... his _stupidity_, his asinine foolishness, his pointless bravado. Roy blinked at her, and then scowled right back, drawing himself up so that he towered even further above her.

"With a handful of soldiers and one state alchemist in enemy territory, where _anything_ might happen, Colonel Hawkeye? It's not about how much back-up you have, it's where you are-"

"We are soldiers, sir," she interrupted coolly. "Our job in this area is to free the native peoples from a hostile enemy threat. I will remain in this area in order to make sure it is fully secured. "

"How the hell can you think I'm just going to tolerate this display of insubordination and just leave? If I'm going back to base then you are coming with me, and don't try to argue with me or else it'll be Private Hawkeye-"

"Fuhrer Mustang, sir!" she said, her unimpressed tone ringing through the buildings. This time she made an effort to modulate her voice back down to a calm rebuttal of his facts before she drew the attention of her squadron. "Listen to me, sir, I can handle this situation. I've been in worse. But if the enemy sees you out in the open, things will get bad for the both of us. You're the Fuhrer and the Flame Alchemist and the backbone of this operation, and if they eliminate you they eliminate the military, and _we can't afford that_, sir. Don't you understand?"

"Yes," he said eventually, an almost petulant expression on his face. "I do. I'll get in the damn car."

"Thank you," Riza said, forcing herself to smile. She raised her voice enough to announce, "When you've dropped the wounded off at the field hospital and escorted the Fuhrer to safety, return here to bring back the POWs. Clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Savage replied, ripping off a sharp salute and looking more than a little awestruck as Roy got into the passenger seat, arms folded over his chest.

Riza saluted at him and didn't drop her hand until the jeep was out of sight, instead turning back to the four captives. "So," she said, tapping her pistol against her thigh and grinning in an unsettling manner, "Who's leading you guys?"

She was aware the neighbourhood block was on fire, and that she probably looked diabolic in the reflected red light, and that she had just manhandled the most powerful man in Amestris, and therefore she couldn't help but be impressed that the men merely squared their jaws and glared defiance at her.

"You're not allowed to torture us," one man said with a very heavy accent. Riza could tell with a glance he would be the ringleader. No older than twenty-three, she thought, and as ideologically bold as they all are at that age. "Amestris code of treatment for POWs states-"

She tilted her head at Armstrong, who struck a pose, tearing off his blue military coat to reveal the rippling muscles underneath. "There are ways other than torture," he boomed. "Allow me to show you the conversational technique passed down through generation upon generation of the Armstrong family!"

* * *

"Sir?"

He put down his pen to offer a small smile to the young man, who saluted sharply. "Can I help you... Nicholas?"

"Sir, the Amestris dogs have taken three quarters of the city. It's time to evacuate you."

"Of course. Thank you, Nicholas. Give me enough time to fetch my coat, if you please."

The young man saluted again and left his study, and he rose to collect his suitcase and outdoor clothing. He paused at the door to his little office, bathed red by the fires of the city, the floor shaking occasionally as another bomb went off, and smiled. Phase one was complete; the trap had been set. It remained to see if the bait would be taken.

He paused in the street outside, taking in a deep breath, and Nicholas immediately appeared to hover at his side. "How goes the Rulingrad division?"

"They've rigged several major buildings in the city, including the hospital, the bases, and the University."

"Good thinking with the hospital, I suppose; but is that all?"

"No, sir. They've also planted explosives in the houses of some of those suspected of having ties with the military."

"Splendid. We do need to drive the message home that we will not tolerate treachery, of course." His boots crunched through fresh snow as he and Nicholas made their way to the south outskirts of the city, and he fumbled in his coat pocket for the little silver case. "Do you smoke, my boy?"

"Only cigarettes, sir."

"Ah? Such a shame, the taste of youth today," he said through the cigar he'd clamped between his teeth. "May I trouble you for a match?"

Nicholas handed him the small cardboard box as they passed the slums at the outskirts of the city, but the rising wind and flurry of snow whipped out the flare each time he struck one. "It's going to be a hard eight miles to walk, sir, in this weather."

"Ah, but who said anything about walking, now that the snow will serve as a cover? Come, lad, it's time for a little bit of petty theft."

"Sir? You mean, to steal a car from the military?"

"Steal is _such_ a troublesome word, don't you think? But yes, in layman's terms, I am planning to borrow, with no intention of returning, a military vehicle. I trust you have your revolver close to hand?"

"Sir," Nicholas said with a nod. His face was somewhat pale, but he seemed willing enough, which was something to be thankful for; the kid had guts, and was ideologically sound, which was why he kept him close. He disliked cowards intently, much the same way he disliked the military, alchemists, and traitors.

* * *

They'd just left the last shop when Al doubled up and began coughing, hacking hoarsely and pounding at his own chest. Winry blinked at him, but Ed merely thumped him on the back and said, "I thought we were trying to be inconspicuous?"

"Not my fault," Al managed through a throat virtually squeezed shut and starting to tickle. "Water." Winry ducked back into the little shop while Ed hit him just below the shoulder blades again, a bemused and slightly worried expression on his face. He was right, though; people were sparing them both suspicious expressions, like maybe they thought Ed was killing him or something. Al closed his eyes and forced the coughing fit back, then spared a moment to glare with eyes gone teary at a large man wrapped tightly in a bulky and concealing coat and hat, and more specifically the cigar spewing nasty fumes into the air just visible between the hat and a woollen scarf.

Ed mirrored the thoroughly pissed off expression as the man strolled on by, though he didn't turn to look back at them. "You selfish bastard, some people're allergic to that junk," Al heard, amidst several unpleasant remarks about the offending smoker's parentage. Ed had just started on the primate family when Winry emerged with a bottle of water in her hand. She blinked, caught some of the language he was using, and smacked him on the flesh shoulder.

"It's baboons with the colourful bottoms anyway, not gibbons," she added, unscrewing the cap and holding the bottle out for Al, who took it with a grateful expression.

"Doesn't matter," Ed grumbled, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, "he's still a monkey all the same."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Not really," Al admitted, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he lowered the bottle. "Much better. Thank you."

"No problem," Winry said with a charming smile, drawing her own coat around her. The wind had picked up, whipping her hair around her face like a cheery yellow scarf, and a few snowflakes were starting to drift down from the heavens. She hissed at the sight and thrust one of her bags into Ed's arms and began walking, calling for them to catch up.

"Looks like that storm's hitting," Al said with a sigh, taking another sip of the water as he broke into a light jog to catch up.

"Which storm?" Ed managed through gritted teeth, attempting to wrap his arms around the bag and cursing at the weight. "What's _in_ this thing, weights?"

"A new set of screwdrivers, actually," Winry corrected, falling in between them. "And, the storm they announced on the _radio_, if either of you two _had_ one. It's coming from the Northeast, so it hit Yikatrinburg about half an hour ago. Wonder if it's going to affect the military plans."

"More importantly, is it going to affect your plans for getting home?" Al asked with a small frown. "You're going the day after tomorrow, if it holds up the roads will be utterly blocked-"

"-And you guys will have to look after me for longer!"

"Oh, joy."

"Shush, Ed," Winry growled, as she smacked him soundly on the shoulder. "By the way, I'm taking you guys for dinner tomorrow. It can't be healthy, being cooped up like that together."

"_I_ don't mind," Ed protested, but the look she gave him said everything.

"It'll be good for you. Don't argue with me. You agree, don't you, Al?"

"About the restaurant, the arguing, or you staying longer?" Alphonse asked, a little lost, and Winry ran a hand through her hair with an exasperated sigh.

"I meant the eating out, but all three will do," she said, changing the sigh into a cheeky grin.

"Ah." Al slid his hands into his pockets and looked heavenwards for a few minutes instead of answering. The light snowfall was gradually becoming thicker, and he frowned at the sight. "I think it'd be a good idea to go home now, before we freeze," he said finally. Winry opened her mouth to protest, but stopped, cutting herself off abruptly. "Fine. But you don't get out of it that easily."

"If you say so," Al said mildly, in no mood to protest.

It was dark by the time they got back, night falling early in northern winters. Winry busied herself in the kitchen, brewing tea and squabbling with Al over dinner, and it wasn't until the meal was ready and arranged on the table that Al realized Ed had vanished. His brother was to be found in the studio, looking out over the city. Al flicked the light on, and frowned when Ed didn't even turn to acknowledge him. "Brother? The food's ready," he said, somewhat reproachfully.

"I'll be there in a minute," Ed said, not looking away from the window. Al left the doorway to come stand beside him, curious as to what had caught his brother's attention, and Ed raised a hand to point at the horizon. "Yikatrinburg. Ten miles away. Look at the sky."

"Fire," Alphonse breathed, recognizing the way the clouds above the distant city had been dyed red. "It's on fire, isn't it? And a big one."

"Mustang," Ed snarled through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed. Al spared him a glance, and then reached out, securing his brother's hand in his own. Ed blinked at the contact, letting his other arm drop from the window, and smiled hesitantly; Alphonse released him as soon as he saw the smile- there was no point in letting Winry catch him being so physically intimate with Ed, after all.

"It may not be Roy, brother," he said quietly, when he was sure he had Ed's full attention. "It might be the 'scorched earth' policy the Drachnians love so much."

"Either way," Ed replied, a scowl lighting on his features, "What about the people? The ones who lose their homes? Bet neither side thought of _them_."

"They _never_ do," Al said, derision plain in his tone.

"I wish... I just wish I could help, you know?" Ed mumbled, his hands clenching weakly by his sides. Al touched his shoulder, and when Ed looked up at him, there was only understanding in his brother's eyes.

"I do too," Al replied, gaze going back out the window to the red sky over the other city. "Sometimes, though... No, never mind. The best we can hope for is that the new Fuhrer has a better policy for a conquered city's refugees than Bradley did."

Ed sniffed. "That shouldn't be hard," he said, and when Al looked back down at him some of the wistfulness had faded from his face. "We should go back, before the food gets cold," he added with a grin, and Al smiled.

As they left the studio, Ed shot one last, lengthy, thoughtful glance over at the red-tinted clouds, but his expression was utterly blank, and Al couldn't have guessed what he might be feeling.

"Sir," Riza said, saluting sharply. "We believe the liberation of the city of Yikatrinburg from hostile forces to be complete. Here is the report of our injured and dead, and the same for the enemy."

Roy blinked in the morning light and took the sheaf of paper, wincing at the stark numbers on the first page. "I see. Do you feel the liberation was a success, Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Riza said, still gazing intently at a spot two inches to the left of and three inches above his right ear.

"Granted," he replied, tapping the thick wad of the report against his free palm.

"I believe the enemy to simply be biding their time, considering the comparatively low resistance we suffered in the fighting yesterday and last night. I think it would be wise to leave the majority of our troops here to keep order, under the command of General Armstrong, sir."

"I see," Roy said, and looked again at the first page. "We'll do that, then. I'll take two hundred-odd with me when I go back, and the rest will stay here. It says we have approximately fifty-nine captives, here. I trust they have all been interrogated?"

"To the best of our abilities given the limited circumstances, sir," she answered readily enough. "None provided any useful or relevant information. We discovered one man known only as 'Sir', who always hides his face in public, leads the pro-Drachnian group. We were told he appeared out of nowhere two years ago, claiming that becoming part of the Drachnian empire would bring the north wealth, freedom from their petty civil wars and their food shortages, and numerous other benefits needed in this region, sir."

"That's all we know about him?" Roy replied with a frown.

"Yes, sir."

"Damn it. Where are the POWs now?"

"Transferred back to temporary base at Rulingrad, sir."

"I want the two-hundred odd troops ready for departure by this afternoon," Roy demanded, shrugging his coat on as he did so. "I will talk with the prisoners."

"Sir," she replied, and saluted again. As she ducked out of the tent, calling Armstrong over to explain the Fuhrer's plans, she couldn't help but feel relieved about the return of the formal commanding officer-subordinate relationship, in that he didn't seem to hold a grudge for last night.

* * *

"This is the place?" Winry asked, drawing her coat tighter around herself. Behind them, the last of the military trucks rolled in, fresh from Yikatrinburg; beside her, Ed huddled further into the shadows and tugged the collar of his coat up as far as it would go.

"Yes," Alphonse said with a sweet little smile, and Ed snorted and nuzzled his face further into his scarf. Winry looked up again at the sign above the little restaurant's door, a slightly dubious expression on her face; if Al hadn't told her that he and Ed had eaten here several times, and that it was much better than it seemed, she wouldn't have given it a second glance.

"Well, here we go," she muttered, more to herself than to the Elric brothers, and pushed the little door open. They were greeted almost immediately by a little man with a shining bald spot in the middle of his head, dressed in an old, but neat, suit. He bowed to them both and called Al by his assumed name, and guided them to a table by the window. He put menus in front of them, bowed once more, and vanished while they browsed. By the time he returned, five minutes later, they had their orders ready; he jotted them down on a notepad he kept in a breast pocket, gave another extravagant bow, and went back into the kitchen.

The food took only half an hour to cook, and was, as Alphonse had assured her, wonderful. Winry particularly enjoyed the steak, and was just taking the last, succulent bite, when a building a couple of blocks away blew up.

"What was that?" Winry asked, eyes wide, and Ed swore.

"Do you think it's them, brother?" Al asked, body terse.

"Yeah. The military don't need to blow this city up as well," Ed growled. "Al, I'm going to find out what's happening. Take Winry to safety, and avoid the military bases-"

Another explosion rocked the city, and Winry winced. "Brother," Al complained, "I should go help- remember who you are-"

"Stop it, both of you," Winry snapped. "People are _dying_ while you two just stand and bicker! Ed, find out what's going on. Al, there's going to be a lot of people trapped in that rubble, go get them out. As for me, I'm going to the hospital to see if I can help at all."

"But, Winry-"

"You can't do that-"

"I _can_!" She interrupted, voice pitched to cut across theirs. "I'm not some sort of pampered princess who needs strong men around her all the time. I'm an automail mechanic who knows something about medicine, and there are people who will need my help! There are people who need _yours_, so _go_! Don't just stand around and argue about it!" She was sliding out of the seat as she spoke, her hands planted firmly on her hips. A bomb went off even closer, in the next block; the cloud of dust blasted several meters in the air. Fires were just starting to spread, and just outside the window they could see people fleeing, mothers with babies in arms, small children on their father's shoulders. Ed and Al stared, and she relaxed, allowing herself to smile. "I'm going to use what I know to help. You two should do the same."

"All right," Ed said, and when Al glanced over at him he had a somewhat devious grin on his face. "We'll meet at the plaza near the train station at dawn tomorrow, okay?"

"Brother," Al complained, and Ed smiled at him.

"Don't worry, I won't get caught. And you two, don't die on me. Understand?"

Winry grinned, and nodded.

"This is going to be a long night," Al grumbled as he walked past Winry, headed over to the site of the most recent explosion. They waved to each other, and separated.

Al was right, Ed thought, as he set about the difficult job of hunting down terrorists; this was probably going to be one of the longest nights of his life.

* * *

There had been motion, then a sudden jarring lack of it. Dimly, he heard a horrible screech and a crunch as foundations tore and a building crumbled, and then everything went dark.

* * *

She had been accepted in a little field hospital set up in what had once been a pensioner's nursing home, after she filled the head surgeon in on her profession and basic medical background. The wounded were coming in- one of the first explosions had been the hospital, and much of the equipment that had been scavenged from the rubble was battered or broken. _'Military or civilian only?'_ she was asked, and like her parents before her, Winry said _'both'_.

Everything was a blur- a tourniquet loosened and a limb amputated properly here, shrapnel removed there, stitches applied here and broken bones splinted there. She almost didn't notice when she moved beyond the civilian ward into the military, save that gunshot wounds began appearing, and beyond the green of the blankets and the pinkness of skin there lay the precise blue of the military uniform, but the faces were the same. Young men writhing in pain from injuries were identical, no matter what their status or nationality.

She had just finished splinting another military man's broken arm when a hand descended on her shoulder and a voice inquired, "Miss Rockbell?" She flailed, half in surprise and half in fear, but the man caught her hand. "What are you doing here?" He asked, and there was no hostility in his voice, only confusion. She blinked at him, and searched her mind for his name, one of Mustang's subordinates, but the life of her she couldn't remember which one...

"Um... Mr. Farman?"

"Yes, that's me. Miss Rockbell, what are you doing so far from home?"

"I- I thought that with the war on and everything, they'd need medical help," she said weakly, and inwardly cursed herself. "Where's the rest of-?"

Farman frowned, not looking convinced, but said, "Havoc and Breda are with Fury. Hawkeye took the Fuhrer out of base to go see the POWs we caught, and we've received no word from them since the explosions began."

"Oh," Winry said, quietly. She wasn't sure what to think about Mustang, but his Lieutenant had seemed like a nice lady, and Ed and Al had both spoke very highly of her. "Is that why you're here? In case they're bought in?"

Farman started, but nodded slowly. Winry frowned, looking down at her feet, and then looked up. "Go get something to eat or some coffee," she said. "You look exhausted. I'll tell you if anything happens, all right?"

"I can't," he answered, but took a seat to watch her work instead. "Miss Rockbell?"

"Yes?" She replied absently, moving onto another patient.

"What do you think... their chances are?"

She paused before answering; Farman sounded almost like a child, who feared the worst and wanted someone other than themselves to reassure them. "I think they'll be fine," she said, popping a dislocated shoulder back into position.

* * *

The young man probably hadn't deserved to be grabbed by the collar and hauled into an alleyway, to be physically threatened until Ed could smell his courage running down the leg of his pants, but he had no choice. He'd recognized him as one of the men handing out pamphlets on the street yesterday, and had cornered him when he was unsuspecting. "Tell me who is leading you bastards," he growled, automail hand clenched in the fabric of the boy's shirt. When the boy shook his head, he slammed him back against the wall again. "Tell me!"

"I don't know! I don't know! Please don't kill me! I didn't know it would be like this! I thought it was all going to be leaflets and voting, not- not explosions! Let me go, and I'll never do it again! Please, I have a loving family!"

Ed dropped him, and he slid weakly to the floor, where the blond alchemist crouched over him. He couldn't be much older than nineteen, he thought, and wondered if this family included a younger brother even now waiting for his elder sibling to return. "Tell me what you know," he said, almost gently. "Just tell me, and I'll let you go."

"He- He's called 'Sir'," the boy stammered, eyes wide. "Nobody's ever seen his face. At least, they're not supposed to..."

"Go on," Ed said, because the boy had stopped.

"He's got a southerner's colouring," the boy said. "He's not a small man. And he smokes cigars."

"He's not a small man in what sense?" Ed demanded impatiently. "Height? Weight?"

"Size! I mean, he has broad shoulders and stuff. Like maybe he used to be a boxer or something."

"Fine," Ed said with a sigh. Utterly useless information, but the boy clearly didn't know any more. "Go home, your family's probably waiting. And kid?"

The boy gulped, but raised his chin to inquire, "Sir?"

"Next time you join a mysterious group making lots of vague promises, make sure you know what you're getting yourself into," Ed said, with a slightly self-mocking grin. The boy nodded slowly, and fled.

* * *

"What a mess," Al said, surveying the wreck of the street. It was the fifth scene of destruction he'd seen since he'd started, but also one of the nastiest. A building had collapsed when a bomb planted between it and one backing onto it had exploded, and had fallen across the street. Bits of masonry were _everywhere_, bricks and shards of glass flung far beyond the limits of the street, dust and smoke clogging the air. Alphonse coughed, covering his mouth with a hand. His eyes watered, and he was about to leave- he'd been assured by the family who lived there that he house was empty- when he noticed something. Tyre marks. Four trails of black, like rubber burning as someone tried to do tricks with their car.

Or to avoid a collapsing building.

He began to walk forwards, following the marks, and discovered they ended under a heap of rubble. No plaster, he noticed, only wood and glass. Whoever had been in that car may have survived. He bought his hands together, filling himself with the alchemical charge- all the neighbours had fled the street, there would be no witnesses- and pressed them against the heap.

Wood flew backwards, twisting into obscure shapes as it went. The heap parted before him, like some kind of prophet with a river, revealing the smooth black painted surface of a military car, not too badly damaged. When it was completely freed, Alphonse tugged at the passenger door; he had to do a bit more alchemy to open it, it had been bent too far inwards for the lock to function properly. He closed his arms around a body and drew it out, setting it a few feet away, and ducked back in. He pulled two more bodies out and set them beside the first, and only then did he take a good look at them.

"Oh, _bother_," he said miserably, recognizing two. Nevertheless, he went on his knees and pressed his fingertips against Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye's throats to find their pulses, and found them strong and steady. They were wounded, but not fatally, and recovering even now from slight asphyxiation. Not so with the third, a young man he didn't recognize. He'd been the driver, and something had come through the windscreen and practically decapitated him. Al winced at the sight, and stripped Roy of his coat to provide a makeshift shroud.

By the time he'd done that, Riza was up and blinking at him, pressing her right hand against her temple. She had a nasty gash on her forehead, and Al could tell with a sigh that her left arm was broken. A brief rummage in the wreckage of the building found part of a windowsill, which he turned into a rudimentary splint, binding it to her arm tightly with a strip of fabric torn from the bottom of his own coat. She watched him, evidently still a little dazed- though a quick glance at her pupils revealed no concussion- but obviously having decided he was on her side. "You were lucky," he said, nodding back at the car. "Not many people would've survived that, let alone got off so lightly."

"Fuhrer Mustang," she said, choosing to ignore this statement. "The Flame-"

"Relax," he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. "He's alive. I checked. He got off even lighter than you did, I think."

"I have to see for myself," she answered stubbornly, twisting to look around. "Sir?"

"Behind you," Al replied with a long-suffering sigh, and she scuttled over to his side, doing her own pulse check. "He's sprained his ankle, I think. Hold on while I do something about that."

He had to look around for something to draw an array with; he wasn't going to show a now fully-conscious Lieutenant Hawkeye the rather unique alchemy only he, his teacher and his brother possessed, and an ankle support wasn't the most pressing of needs. He found his answer in a cane of wood that might once have been somebody's walking stick, and one of the fires which had sprung up around the collapsed building; fairly soon he was drawing a basic array in charcoal around Roy's ankle, and then setting his hands to it. He backed off to consider the stone wrapped tightly around his ankle, over the boots and military uniform, and shrugged. Could be better, could be worse. Roy was waking up too, he realized, and decided to make a break for it. Before he could get very far, he heard the 'click' of a gun and turned to see Riza pointing one of her pistols at him. He sighed, acknowledging that he wouldn't be leaving just yet, and took a seat on the floor as Roy came fully into wakefulness. He wasn't worried about them discovering his identity- well, he was, but that wasn't his main concern right now.

No, what he was worried about was just how he was supposed to protect Roy from the armed Drachnian group who had just arrived at the end of the street, without revealing his trademark alchemy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Enjambement (Part V)  
**Author:** Kaltia  
**Fandom:** Fullmetal Alchemist  
**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to SquareEnix.  
**Beta:** Nanashi Ivy  
**Pairings:** Elricest, (possible) eventual RoyxRiza  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** "I mean, who'd expect the famous deceased Edward Elric in a dump like Rulingrad?"  
**Notes:** Main Entry: **en·jamb·ment**  
Pronunciation: _in-'jam-mont_  
Variant(s): or **en·jambe·ment**  
Function: _noun_  
: the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different lines.

* * *

Ed sighed, wrapping his coat around him, and pressed himself a little further into the shadows of the small alleyway.

He was no closer to finding out the identity of 'Sir' than he had been when he started. He had varying descriptions- that the man was big, broad-shouldered, and nobody had ever seen his face though his hands were the colour of a southerner who hadn't seen enough sun; lily-white, but also weathered.

He huffed, stamping his boots, and chafed his flesh arm with his clothed automail. It was approaching midnight by now, and he wondered how Al was getting on. He'd practically had a heart attack when one of his victims had told him the hospital had been bombed, but had been reassured to discover that it had been before he even left the restaurant; if Winry died he'd have to _kill_ her, because he would never trust his automail to anyone else.

Outside the alleyway he heard footsteps, too many to be one person, too slow to be refugees, and too disorganised to be military. He poked his head around the corner, carefully, and watched the two men go by. Both were in their mid thirties, he estimated, and both had guns over their shoulders. Hmm. First weapon seemed to be an average rifle, dropped from military use back when he was thirteen for a newer model, but he couldn't recognise the second.

He ducked back into the alcove as they passed the mouth of the alley, his breathing cool and steady. He'd tailed several people over time, and knew he was good at it; knew there was more to shadowing someone than diving behind obstacles whenever they turned around.

He'd been trailing this particular pair mostly via rooftops for at least half an hour, after he'd first caught sight of them along the main street. They'd been sharing a ragged dog-end, hanging around under the eaves of a building while the city exploded around them, conversing lightly about Sir's plans for the North, and Edward had been leaning on the guttering above them, not looking over but instead listening carefully. When they didn't give away Sir's location, he'd decided to stalk them back to their hideout, a risky and foolish plan to carry out by himself, admittedly, but the best he could think of. And Alphonse would throw a fit if he knew, but Edward didn't exactly plan to _tell_ him.

He frowned as his quarry slipped around a corner, slipping through the darkness to hesitate just at the junction, listening intently for their footfalls. He peeked, quickly, saw their backs vanishing down this new road, and quietly scaled the wall to follow them from the roofs of the surrounding buildings.

They passed three more junctions, getting further and further into the city slums. These hadn't been touched by bomb or fire yet, just the grinding poverty to which Edward had become accustomed, and he ghosted his way past silent citizens bedecked in rags, who spared him no more interest than they would a neighbour's child. Ed rounded the fourth corner, still alert and wary, and wondered if they were close. He suspected Sir would be underground, his 'safe' exit from his hideout in this un-ruined segment of the city, but had learned long ago never to trust _suspicions_.

There was no sign of the two men he'd been following all evening. His hackles raised, Ed spun in time to see one of them -the one with the rifle and the bearskin hat, he noticed distantly, and wondered where the man's comrade was - casually tear the pin out of a grenade with his teeth, then with a practised flick of his wrist, toss it at him.

He froze for a split-second, mind racing and eyes fixed on the small projectile. Al would butcher him if he did alchemy to save himself, but then Al wouldn't be too happy if he were killed here, or if he turned up missing more limbs. It was the thought of what his brother might feel upon learning of Edward's death that made his hands jerk together, made the alchemical charge skitter through his veins, bought his palms down to the ground and created the wall between him and the grenade.

It bounced, spinning to a halt a couple of yards away, where it exploded. Ed cursed, trying to stand and managing it after three attempts. Damnit, alchemy never used to take it out of him like this, but then again he hadn't used it for anything more than repairing broken crockery for two years. He pressed his back against his barrier to steady himself while the world reeled around him, waiting for his legs to stop trembling, the nausea in his belly to go away and his sense of balance to return, keenly aware he was in enemy territory here. He gritted his teeth, trying to will away this reaction, and closed his eyes tightly.

It took him a few minutes to realize it wasn't fading, that instead his vision was blurring and his legs weren't responding. It seemed like forever until he could get the automail working to sweep a hand over his right thigh, pulling the dart from his leg, and sluggishly turn his head to see the missing comrade approaching, the unfamiliar gun in hand.

The first joined him, scowling. "Damnit, Peter, how much did you give him?"

"An entire dart, Joseph," the second replied, and Ed blinked and tried to concentrate on him even as he slid down the wall to the floor. "He's a stubborn one."

"Damn right. Well, well, an alchemist. State alchemist too, I reckon. Nobody else would be following us like that. Sir will be pleased, won't he?" Rifle-man asked, crouching over him. Ed raised his chin and swung, slowly, liquid muscles refusing to respond quickly to mental instructions. The rifle-man - Joseph? - snorted, catching his wrist mid-arc, and pried the dart out of his grip. "Stubborn little bastard. Get him again, Peter."

He saw the trigger going off, felt himself being picked up- "Awww, man, he weighs a fucking tonne-" and though he struggled against the blackness, it took him in the end.

* * *

Al waited for the men to approach, cautiously, none wanting to be first. He stood, brushing dust off his jeans and stepping carefully between Riza, Roy and the newcomers, and offered a charming smile. "Hello, there," he said. "Could you help us out? There's been a bit of an accident-"

"We're looking for someone," interrupted the leader, encouraged by the complacency in Al's tone. "A man in the Amestris military regalia. Wearing these distinctive white gloves, got a circle on the back of some sort or other. He has black hair, might've been with a blonde woman. Seen him?"

"Is this him?" Al asked, gesturing to the corpse of the driver. The leader started, inching a little closer, and Al picked up the charcoal stick and began absently doodling. He was a little rusty with arrays and alchemy in general, but it was like riding a bicycle; once learned, never forgotten.

The leader crouched over the corpse, making no move to remove the makeshift shroud, and most of his men flocked around him to peer over his shoulder. Al winced at the hopeless enthusiasm of the youths, carefully etching the last line of the triangle that went inside the array, between the first circle and the second. Only one man remained behind, gripping his gun with a sort of easy confidence, and he was the one inching slowly away. Anticipating an ambush, Al thought. "What's your name?"

He blinked, realizing the question had been directed at him, and tilted a knowing smile at the leader. The man had hesitated, fingers on the edge of the coat, about to draw it back; behind him he heard faint movement from either Roy or Riza. "Alexander," he said mildly, dropping onto his knees as though he were exhausted, hands resting in his lap. "My name is Alexander Edwards. I work at the university. Why? Is it important?" The first gasp of realization when they removed the coat from the corpse, and they'd find the ground doing some very strange things indeed under their feet, Alphonse thought when he received no immediate reply. The cautious man remained cautious, shifting his weight and backing off another step, and the leader drew the coat back with a sharp yank.

Alphonse thought he would never forget the events that followed that action. He dimly saw the slow comprehension on the leader's face, saw him turn, reaching for his gun. He didn't remember placing his hands on the array, but he must've done, for the light that crackled was blue and bright. The wary man hanging around at the back turned and fled, and he wondered why until he heard the almost gentle 'snap', the sudden absence of sound as the fire spawning from Mustang's gloves consumed the oxygen in the air to spread, to rush over the patrol. It wasn't close enough to his face to be anything more than pleasantly warm, but he thought that that might be the worst thing. The soundlessness didn't extend to the screams of the burning men, and he turned, horrified, to see the cold predatory expression on Mustang's face and Riza's detached, almost sad eyes.

And then there was nothing but the stench of melted flesh and blackened skeletons strewn across a road surface which bubbled slightly. Al didn't think he could be blamed for leaping back with his hands over his mouth, eyes wide and disgusted. "They were just doing their job," he whispered, turning back to Mustang. "You didn't have to... they were..."

Mustang rose, awkwardly, to his feet, flinging an arm around Riza's shoulder for support. "I did," he said, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ankle. The boy - Alexander - turned back to the bodies, face troubled. "If you're going to be sick, be sick."

"I'm not," Al said, quietly. "I've seen worse." Before Mustang could ask what he meant, he'd turned back to the bodies. "We should probably do something for them," he said, pressing his hands down on the array he'd drawn earlier, though not for this purpose. Roy watched quietly as the ground gaped open to swallow the burned skeletons. Alphonse tilted his head back when he was done, frowning up at Mustang. "So that's what being a soldier really means," he muttered, rising back to his feet.

"I didn't call for you to make judgements about my profession," Mustang said somewhat wearily. "Thank you for your help, Alexander, but I need to get back to base."

"In that condition?" Al asked, not bothering to hide the condescending tone. "Maybe where you come from, it's considered a good idea for a man with only one working ankle and a woman with a broken arm to limp all the way across town, facing natural hazards and a whole score of people hunting for them, but here? That's what we call 'stupid'."

"What are you trying to say?" Riza demanded, narrowing her eyes.

Alphonse slipped his hands in his pocket and sighed. "Let me escort you. Won't improve your chances much, but it'll help my conscience."

"I don't need-"

"Don't lie; you know it's an idiotic idea. Look, I'll just take you to the base or the university-"

"If they're still standing," Mustang said with the dark humour readily available to the young or the doomed. "Look, just help me find the nearest telephone and I'll contact my men-"

Alphonse raised an eyebrow and began to laugh, shaking his head with amusement. "There are perhaps thirty phones in this entire city, you know," he said conversationally, eyes glinting with good-natured wickedness. "They're expensive, and most people don't really need one in their day-to-day lives. Here. I'll take you back home. There's a phone there, which is the nearest you're going to find for a mile, and I don't think you can hobble a mile."

Roy frowned deeply, but Riza interrupted whatever he was about to say with a fierce, "Why should we trust you?"

"You shouldn't," Al replied, wrinkling his nose as he glanced down at the smooth patch in the street where the cobblestones had been swallowed along with the bodies. "But I think you can fend for yourselves against one person, and to be honest, I'm not interested in living in a society where people like some of that group rules, you know?" He paused a beat, then turned a somewhat sweet smile on them. "You don't need to worry, but you probably will. Come on. I saved you from suffocating in that car, if I wanted you dead I could've done it while you were both still out of it. And you'll only be staying until one of your allies picks you up," he added with an innocent shrug and a sweet smile. Riza frowned, but Roy nodded.

"Fine. But I warn you-"

"You don't need to do that. I'm well aware of what those gloves can do, remember?" Al slid his hands in his pockets and set off, pausing only to look over his shoulder. "Coming?"

They were, of course.

* * *

The phone rang three times before Sir picked it up, and Nicholas scowled up at the sky while he waited. Finally it got through, and the voice of his leader came through the receiver. "Yes?"

"It's me, Sir. Nicholas. Patrol B was wiped out."

"_What_? By _whom_?"

He hesitated before answering, but eventually found his courage. "By the Flame Alchemist, Sir."

"When?" Sir sounded terse and annoyed, and Nicholas bit his lip and winced.

"About five minutes ago. He's with his aide, and a man I don't recognise."

"Describe him, then."

"About twenty years old, sir. He said his name was Alexander Edwards. And that he worked at the university. Dark blond hair, an alchemist. I didn't see any more than that before I left."

"Really?" Sir sounded amused, and Nicholas drummed his fingers on the telephone in anticipation. "Very well. Thank you for the information, Nicholas. Now go to the university and find information on this man."

"I already did, Sir."

"Ah?"

Nicholas flinched. "His file was taken, Sir. By one of the Fuhrer's direct subordinates, by the name of Major Jean Havoc. Nobody knows where _he_ is right now."

There was a thunderous silence on the other end of the line, and Nicholas hastily added, "The receptionist gave me his home phone number instead, Sir."

"Havoc's?"

"No, Sir, Alexander's. 07456, she said."

Sir sighed. "I suppose that's the best we can do. Let us hope he chooses to go home. I want you, Nicholas, to find me the house with that number. Contact me when you do," and with those words he hung up. Nicholas blinked at the receiver, then breathed a sigh of relief and placed it back on the hook. He glanced lengthways up the street, and fumbled with the little carton of cigarettes, lighting one despite the wind and snow. Folding his hands back in his pocket, he grinned. This should be easy.

* * *

Ed awoke in a patch of artificial light, sitting cross-legged on a hard concrete floor. He blinked the last remnants of his drugged sleep out of his eyes, and then began to take in the surroundings as well as his own condition. Whoever it was who had bound him had done so thoroughly and skilfully, and must have known something about his alchemy, because his right arm had been neatly detached and was lying on a small table about five feet to his left, piled high with cards, cigarette butts, beer bottle tops and papers. The air had a greasy, somewhat smoky feel to it, and Ed couldn't help but think that as rebel hideouts went, this one was the worst.

At least they hadn't taken away his leg, though a brief check discovered a slim steel shackle around his remaining wrist and ankles, securing him to the wall. He frowned at the steel and looked up, gritting his teeth. It was pitch-black beyond the pool of light he sat in, though he could see the faint glow of cigarettes and hear the low murmur of multiple whispered conversations; he rattled the chains loudly to get some attention, mentally cursing himself for allowing himself to get into this situation. The conversations died, and someone stepped forward, stopping just short of the light. Ed scowled, noticing the silhouette; a big man, broad-shouldered.

"You must be the leader," he said. "I don't know why you've caught me and disarmed me, but-"

"My subordinates thought you were an undercover State Alchemist," Sir said, and his voice was low and even and... vaguely familiar, somehow. "They saw you doing alchemy. They are... not used to alchemy, and it doesn't take much to impress them. Tell me; what is your name?"

"Ivan," Ed muttered, flexing his fingers. The set-up wasn't too different from the Barry the Chopper case; if only he had something to draw on the shackle with... "Ivan Edwards."

"Edwards?" The voice sounded surprised, and then amused. "I see, I see. You have a brother, I understand? Name of Alexander?"

Ed's head jerked up, his eyes wide and furious. He lunged forward, his wrist protesting at the abrupt movement. "What have you done with him, you bastard? Al- Alex has no part in your little terror campaign, you understand? Let him _go_, he's innocent, you-"

"On the contrary," Sir said, and Ed could _hear_ a smirk in his tone. "I am given to understand he has captured the Fuhrer himself. Quite an accomplishment for a mere artist and librarian, no?"

Ed bit his lip, then scowled again. "What do you think you know, you prick? You're probably-"

"Fullmetal," Sir said mildly. "The first time I saw you, you were eleven. Your brother was still wearing the suit of armour then, though I hear he's grown out of it."

Ed froze, and suddenly that voice came back to him. "Oh, fuck," he groaned. "Not _you_." _'Stand up straighter, boy. So. You're the new State Alchemist assigned to Colonel Mustang? Humph. I suppose I owe you my thanks. I hear you passed the test with honours. What's it coming to, Mustang, when an eleven year old boy can take such an exam and score higher than three dozen other candidates?_'

"Thank you for your kind words of remembrance, Edward. You too seem rather healthy, for a dead man."

"Heeeeh? What happened, you old bastard, did Mustang kick you out of his new government?" Ed asked casually, keeping his tone light and filled with contempt.

"It was an armed coup, _boy_," Sir spat, moving into the light. Ed winced, seeing his entire face was covered in bandages. "This is what that treacherous scum Mustang left me. He thought I would die, but I didn't. I wouldn't die that easily. No, I recovered, and I will mutilate him in return, before I kill him. Do you understand?" As he spoke he was reaching up and unwinding the bandages, and Ed pulled a face of revulsion as they came fully off.

"You're welcome to your crackpot vengeance schemes, Halcrow, but you're not going to make me lose my lunch," he warned, and saw the man's eyes- what was left of them, anyway- narrow.

"Do you think you are immune, Fullmetal? That what I do and what Mustang does won't affect you? Your brother has Mustang. I have you. What is it alchemists say? Equivalent Trade? Let us hope your brother is not guided by his emotions, otherwise there could be quite the civil war. I will rule this area of the country, of course, under the control of Drachma."

Ed scowled, rattling the manacles. "You stupid bastard, Al wouldn't fall for that. He knows what is right and what isn't. He wouldn't let you kill Mustang."

"Really? Really? Do you care so little for each other that you would abandon the other in an instant?" Halcrow sighed, wrapping the bandages around his face again. "We shall see what Alphonse says, shall we not?"

"You bastard," Ed muttered as Halcrow stepped backwards, out of the light. There was the distant sound of a door opening, and multiple people trudging out, and Edward estimated he'd been left on his own.

* * *

It had been difficult to get Mustang back without being seen, but Alphonse had managed. As he and Riza between them helped the man through the door, Al couldn't help but wince at the watercolour Ed had left hanging there. So much for subtlety. He was somewhat consoled both by the fact that it really was very bad - he'd been learning the muscle control used in holding a paint brush at the time - and that Mustang didn't catch more than a glimpse of it before Al moved him through into the main area, helping him onto the couch. He pointed Riza to the telephone and went into the kitchen, filling the kettle and leaving it on the stove, and returned to watch his guests. Riza had finally got a hold of someone and was speaking with brusque efficiency, giving her current address and listing the status of both the Fuhrer and herself. She procured a promise to be there by dawn, and went to sit opposite Mustang, drawing her firearm out and leaving it pointedly on the table in front of her. Al nodded, and wandered back into the kitchen, preparing two mugs of coffee and a tea.

The phone rang while he put the mugs on the coffee table. and he picked it up. Irate, Al leapt to his feet to answer it, and Riza followed suit to explore the house. Al watched her warily as he raised the phone to his ear, but what he heard through it was far more terrifying for him than Riza or Roy examining the watercolour at the entrance.

"Alphonse Elric? We're just calling to tell you that we have your brother hostage."

Cliff hangers are fun, aren't they:D


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Enjambement (Part V)  
**Author:** Kaltia  
**Fandom:** Fullmetal Alchemist  
**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to SquareEnix.  
**Beta:** Nanashi Ivy  
**Pairings:** Elricest, eventual RoyxRiza  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** "I mean, who'd expect the famous deceased Edward Elric in a dump like Rulingrad?"  
**Notes:** Main Entry: en·jamb·ment  
Pronunciation: _in-'jam-mont_  
Variant(s): or **en·jambe·ment**  
Function: noun  
: the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different lines.

* * *

Al breathed out slowly, hands tightening on the receiver. He wasn't stupid enough to claim that they were lying, but instead asked through a throat tightening helplessly, "How did you find out?"

The person on the other end laughed. "That is not important at this moment in time, Alphonse. As I was saying, we have your brother hostage."

"You want the Fuhrer," Al hissed, cautiously peeking around the corner to see whether his guests had heard. Roy was sipping his coffee casually, still seated on the couch, and had a newspaper open on his lap; of Lieutenant Hawkeye, however, there was no sign.

"Naturally," the voice purred. "We are willing to exchange your brother's life for his, though."

"You're asking me to choose between them?" Ah, there she was - just visible inside the main entrance hall, studying the painting. Al cursed internally and shuffled back from sight, leaning against the wall next to the telephone receiver.

"But of course," the unknown man said, tone rippling with buried mirth. "Do consider, Alphonse; your brother is a young man, in the prime of his youth, while the Fuhrer, on the other hand, is ... not so young. And, of course, you are not as close - "

"Shut _up_," Al snapped, frantically closing his eyes and grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead. He didn't need to think about that right now. He really didn't need to start comparing Roy to his _brother_, to _Ed_.

"As you wish," the voice said mildly. "We are given to understand through our contacts that the military will arrive to collect the Fuhrer, and his pretty young aide, tomorrow at seven hundred hours, am I correct?"

"Yeah," Al said with a scowl, leaning out of the little cubby again in time to see Mustang flip a page of the newspaper. The man raised his coffee to his lips and took another gulp, then paused and glanced up at Al, who forced a smile before moving back out of sight.

"At five hundred hours, if you wish to see your brother again, you will be outside the civil services main office - in Angel Street - with the Fuhrer. The deal shall be made there. Please do not try to double cross us, nor try to defeat us by force to reclaim your brother. It will not work; I can tell you that now. We shall look forward to seeing you."

"Wait - damn," Al spat, holding the dead receiver out in front of him and glaring at it. He slammed it back on the hook, shoulders tense, and then the despair caught up with him as the anger leaked out. "What am I supposed to _do_?" he whispered.

"Alexander?" Hawkeye called from the living room, and Al bit his lip. "Is something wrong?"

He opened his mouth to reassure her that no, nothing was, and felt the lie die in his throat. He couldn't do this. He couldn't arrange Roy's death, and considering Hawkeye's loyalty to the man, her own by extension.

But he couldn't let _them_ kill Ed, either.

He pushed himself away from the wall and headed back into the living room, where he found Roy folding up the paper and Riza perched on the arm of the sofa beside him. He threw himself into the armchair opposite them, and propped his chin up on his fist as Roy threw the paper onto the coffee table and picked up his half-empty mug. "What happened?" he asked softly, taking a sip, and Al blinked at him. "Who were you talking to?"

Riza was watching him, face utterly deadpan. Al squirmed a little under their gazes, dropping his hands to his lap and not meeting their eyes. "Alexander," she said, in that faint way that said, _I didn't expect this from you_.

"They know you're here," he blurted at Roy, and inwardly cursed. He was susceptible to pressure; always had been, which was one of the reasons Ed blamed himself, and himself alone, for the failed attempt to bring back their mother.

"'They'? You mean the terrorist group?"

Al nodded, still keeping his eyes on his hands.

"Why? Why tell you that they know, rather than kidnap us themselves? Why tell _you_ at all?" Riza demanded, her good arm trembling, fingers flexing near the holster at her hip.

Alphonse took a moment to answer, his fingers writhing in his lap. Against his will, they crossed; he remembered the sign from his mother, crossing her fingers to scare off the _things_ a five-year-old Alphonse had been sure had been lurking underneath his bed, waiting to tear him to bits when the lights were turned out.

"They won't bother you anymore, Alphonse," she'd said gently, ruffling his hair. "I'm going back to bed now. Will you be all right?"

"Yes," he'd replied, relieved; she'd laughed and left, switching the lights out and closing the door behind her. In the dark, however, Alphonse could've sworn he could see pairs of hungry red eyes studying him from all over the room; he'd bolted, frantically scrabbling the door open, and pushing into the room across the hall. His brother hadn't been quite asleep, he remembered, and had just drowsily made room for him in his own bed. "Don' w'ry, Al," Ed had said around a jaw cracking yawn, "won' let n'thin' h'pp'n t' you..."

_You didn't, brother,_ he thought, looking down at his crossed fingers. _And maybe it's time I started doing the same._ He hadn't been able to protect Ed through their journey. Ed was stubborn, difficult; too mature to be a child, too naive to be an adult. Trapped somewhere constantly in between as people he knew and cared for died around him, as he tried to be brother and father, friend and companion and guardian all for Alphonse.

_Give him back... He's my little brother. Whether it's my legs or both my arms - I can even give you my heart... so please! Give him back to me! He's the only little brother I have!_

Sometimes those words haunted him, in the early hours of the morning. He didn't know how he knew them - and the image that went with them, of his brother spattered head-to-toe with his own blood, drawing circles on his skin to keep Al with him. "Was I being selfish, Al?"

_Never,_ he thought, and raised his head to look the Fuhrer in the eye. "They have my only older brother hostage," he said quietly. "I'm an alchemist. They probably thought I'd be able to subdue you and make the trade for my brother's safety."

"I'm sorry," Hawkeye whispered, taking him by surprise.

"For what?" Mustang, too, seemed caught off guard.

"That you've been put in this situation because of us, Alexander." She slid her pistol out of the holster, but didn't take the safety off. "What are you going to choose?"

"I don't know," he told her, honestly. "My brother is my _brother_. He's very important to me. But then..."

He stilled his hands on his lap, and whispered, more to himself than to Roy, "Since you became Fuhrer, this country has been more peaceful than it has been for a hundred years."

"Yes," Riza said slowly. "It has. I do not want to be callous, Alexander, but that is why... that is why..."

"That is why you're going to encourage me not to do anything," Al replied shakily, raising his face as if hoping that she would prove him wrong. He felt something inside him give, however, when she refused to meet his eyes; it broke entirely when she nodded, a brisk, sharp motion.

"Isn't there something you could _do_?" he asked, through the sudden obstruction in his throat. "Couldn't you save him, or something? Please?"

"We could try," Roy told him, flat-out, expression drawn and sharp. "But that would mean unnecessary risks, Alexander. We could order every house in the city to be raided, but they would kill him before they let us recover him. We do not know where he is being held, either - I assume they gave you a meeting point, rather than an address?" He paused and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he said, almost gently. "I didn't want it to come to this."

Al couldn't answer, instead drawing his legs up onto the armchair; and, wrapping his arms around them tightly, he buried his face in his knees. Roy climbed awkwardly to his feet, hesitating a little before crossing over to the armchair and dropping a hand on his head. "I'm sorry," he repeated, quietly, before retreating back to the sofa.

Al felt tears pricking, hot and painful, at the corners of his eyes, It wasn't fair, but it was right. Besides, who was Ed? He was just -

_It's the day of mother's funeral, and Ed is crying even though he denies it. Al can't stop, tears pouring down his cheeks as they wait for the Rockbells to finish getting ready; they're sitting on the bottom step, dressed in black suits that itch and don't fit. Ed is warm against his side, and his face is blank even though the corners of his eyes shimmer softly. And he doesn't say anything as Al reaches out to him, wraps his arms around Ed's chest and buries his face in Ed's shoulder; only lifts his hands and settles them around the back of Al's neck, rubbing at the fine hairs there. "Al," he says, fiercely, "We don't need anyone but - _

_"- each other," Ed tells him, face determined and pale. And Al just clasps his brother's one remaining hand and wishes he could smile for him, because his brother is the most important thing in his life, in his_ life_, and he doesn't like seeing him like this, doesn't like seeing him pretend he doesn't hurt so that Al won't worry. "Winry will put my arm on tomorrow," Ed whispers, and his voice is fading; he's exhausted, and the dull glitter of the metal leg and the half-installed port over his shoulder should be enough to tell anybody why. "Al. Could you tell me...?" _

_" -_ why_! Why_ Nina_? What did she do to anyone?" Ed's fury won't let him sleep; he paces the tiny dorm room, shaking with anger and something else. Something deeper. "What did she ever do, to die like_ that_?" He's still crying, a little; tears drip off his cheeks, and are absorbed without a sound by the leather of Al's gauntlets as he reaches out, drags his brother into his lap and wraps a blanket around him. He doesn't say anything - he doesn't need to. His body is cold metal, but it seems to soothe Ed, who closes his eyes and leans, bonelessly, against his breastplate. "I wonder," Ed says quietly, when the room has settled into silence. Al runs his fingers through his brother's hair, undoes the braid and massages the scalp as best he can, his touch a question. Ed tips his head back; he looks so young, so helpless, and Al - _

_- shoves him out of the way and catches the tiny homunculus' attack with his hands, pushing back and sending Wrath flying. Winry and Izumi are watching, horrified, but he is grim and determined. He will tear this little thing apart, no matter what; rip his brother's limbs off this_ thief _and restore them to Ed, because there is no way this creature deserves them. He will do it, for Ed, for the one he - _

_- loves him all the more, watching him sleep, and being able to feel the warmth of him now. Ed mumbles in his sleep and rolls over, and Al lets himself down beside his brother, cautiously rests a hand over his chest to feel it rise and fall, to feel the steady beat of Ed's heart, warm and strong. He leans over despite himself, kisses Ed's mouth as lightly as he can, and doesn't feel guilty for doing it. This is something that he's always wanted, somehow, and it just feels _right_, and natural, and good. Ed's eyes are opening slowly, and when he realises what Al is doing he stiffens helplessly beneath his little brother - and then he is relaxing, his mouth opening of its own will, his tongue shyly brushing Al's in return; and it feels so good and so right that Al feels his fears fade. This is his brother, his best friend, his shield; and more. This is his lover, too, and Al knows he will do anything to keep Ed alive and with him. He'll give up his arms, his legs; his heart, his mind, his_ soul _to keep Ed safe._

He'd give up his secrecy, his lies, his camouflage. He would give it up, because this was _Ed_ - this was his _brother_, whose life hung in the balance, and for whom, and without whom, he would die. He would tell the truth, come clean; because otherwise his world would be ripped asunder, and he knew he wasn't strong enough to survive that. He raised his face and rubbed at the last remnants of tears with the heel of his hands; Roy wasn't looking at him, nor was Riza, both obviously not wanting to witness his grief.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and when they both looked at him, pushed himself up out of his chair. He paced over to the window, looking out over the road, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry. I've been lying to you."

"What do you mean?" Roy asked, at the same time as Hawkeye demanded, "How?"

Al turned his back on the window, leaning against the sill. He kept his posture non-threatening and asked, quietly, "Lieutenant Hawkeye, ma'am? Could you go through the door to the left? There should be a wardrobe in there - could you bring back one of the coats? You'll know it when you see it."

"_Lieutenant_ Hawkeye?" Roy asked, catching the deliberate slip, and Riza frowned. Riza had been introduced to Al as Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye and that alone, and Roy's suspicion was well-founded. The two exchanged long looks when Al shrugged in lieu of an answer, but Riza climbed off the sofa's arm, and with a lasting, suspicious look, went into his bedroom to do what he had asked. Roy was watching him, torn between suspicion and bewilderment; Al smiled and looked over his shoulder, out the window.

He heard Riza give a startled gasp, and a second later she headed back into the room, tossing him a bundle of red fabric. He caught it and shook it out, revealing the stark black lines of the flamel. "The Philosopher's Stone," he said, and Roy pushed himself half-way to his feet, eyes wide.

"Where did you - what are you talking about - _what's happening?_"

"He who obtains it is exempt from the principle of Equivalent Trade," Al continued, over the top of his disjointed protests, "and does not have to sacrifice anything to obtain something."

"Alexander..." Riza said, cautiously, and Al smiled, tracing the lines of the snake curled around the cross with his forefinger. "What are you saying?"

"We sought after it," Al told them both, deadpan, "and we found it." He screwed his brother's coat up and tossed it to Roy, who looked like someone had just slugged him in the stomach with a sledgehammer. "After we found it, we used it, Colonel Mustang. Brother restored my body, though there wasn't enough of it to restore his own limbs - much to my disappointment."

Hawkeye started. "A- A- Al- _Alphonse_?" she managed, pale, and raised her hand to her mouth.

"Yes," he replied. "It's me. After my restoration, we decided between us that the best thing to do - given the coup taking place in the military at the time - would be to simply leave, faking our own deaths. We couldn't trust that Bradley's successor would be someone sympathetic to us. We've spent two years running around Amestris, trying to avoid being caught out, and now - now my brother is in danger, and so I have to tell you the truth."

Roy sank back onto the couch, seeming incapable of speech. Al ran his hands through his hair, and summoned up his most apologetic expression. "I'm sorry," he said, softly. "I wanted to write you, and let you know - that we were okay, but brother said we probably shouldn't. I'm not going to claim that this is all his fault, either - if I try, I can make him do almost anything. But I think I should tell you that I'm sorry, at least."

"Are you really?" Roy asked. "Are you really sorry, or are you saying that in an attempt to get us to help you find your brother?"

Al looked down at his hands. "I'd be lying if I said this all came from the depths of my heart," he admitted, slowly, "but I would also be lying if I claimed I was making it all up on the spot. I spoke to Jean Havoc in the market a few days ago - I think he suspects _something_, but obviously he hasn't told anyone. Hearing... the way he spoke about my brother... I guess that thawed me, a little. You really did mourn him, didn't you?"

"Did you know," Roy told him, face stony and cold. "That in Central every May the twenty-second - the day you and your brother were supposed to have died - is a public holiday? It was one of the first things I established when I became Fuhrer."

Al blinked at him for several long moments, and then looked down at his feet. "No," he said, "I didn't know that."

"Alphonse," Hawkeye added, from the other side of the room. "Why didn't your brother contact us? Why did he say that you 'probably shouldn't'?"

"I think," Al told her, "That brother didn't trust the Colonel."

"Why?" Roy asked, and winced at the little stab of hurt in his voice. Well, he told himself, he had _reason_ to feel wounded, and bitter, and even a little angry after all. Damn Fullmetal; after all he'd done for the boy, he'd been repaid with lies and silence, blank mistrust.

Al took his time in answering, picking his way carefully through the words. "I think," he said slowly, truthfully, "I think he didn't trust you because of your ambition. I think he was worried that you might press-gang me into a State Certification, and force him back to work while you were at it. And I know that feels stupid, but that's how brother thinks. I guess we'll never know for certain, though."

Roy frowned, and Al wondered what he was thinking. "You want us to help you recover your brother."

"Of course," Al replied softly. "But I know you don't owe us anything, so -"

"Maybe I don't want any help I do give to be seen as a debt repaid, or a favour. Perhaps I want to do it for my own reasons."

"You want to talk to my brother, don't you?" Al asked. "You want him to answer your questions himself, because you don't want my answers to be right."

By the way Roy's eyes narrowed, Al guessed he'd been right. "So," he said, when silence dragged out between them, "What are you going to do?"

Roy's eyebrows lifted, and he smirked, an expression familiar to Al from his years of following his brother around Headquarters. "I suppose," he mused, leaning back on the sofa, "that if I don't offer the help you need, your brother will die?"

"Of _course_," Al snapped, through gritted teeth. Did the man not understand? _Ed_ was in danger!

Roy lifted his eyes to the ceiling and gave a deep sigh. Hawkeye was watching him with a thoroughly displeased expression, and he gave her a casual smile before letting his head loll back to face Al. "It would be very disappointing," he said, "if Fullmetal were to be killed by anyone other than _myself_, Alphonse."

Al opened his mouth to voice a protest, and then paused as the implications of Roy's statement rushed into his mind. "I understand," he replied, with a devilish grin Winry had once told him was unnervingly similar to Ed's own.

"Glad to hear it," Roy replied smoothly, and leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, eyes intent and predatory. "So... where do we start?"

* * *

Ed let his head fall back against the wall with a _thunk_, and let out a deep sigh. There was no way of measuring time down here, no way of telling how long he had to wait until Al either signed Roy's death warrant, or his. And the worst thing, the thing that he couldn't help but feel guilty over, was that he didn't know what Al would do.

Damn Halcrow, the bastard! Putting his little brother in a situation like this! Al wasn't one of those people who could kill off those he saw as friends without batting an eye; no matter which he chose, he would regret it forever. He was no killer, Al, and Ed was grateful he'd never had to become one. There was something about seeing death up close, like Majihal, and even worse when you knew you'd done it, you'd struck the final blow... He still dreamed about Greed's stiff, hideously contorted body, melting into the array in a burst of red light. Not that he'd ever told Al; he didn't want his brother to worry.

He shifted his weight a little, stretching his legs out, and idly twitched his feet, glaring over at where his arm lay haphazardly on the table in the corner.

He knew he needed to get free. The longer he stayed here, the closer Al would come to doing something stupid, and he knew he needed to be there to prevent that. He needed to get free and find Al and, yes, Roy, if the bastard was still with his little brother, and then they could puzzle things along from there, right?

Unfortunately, Halcrow and four fully-armed minions were still in the room, his arm had been removed, and he had no means with which to draw an array on the wall.

He was well and truly screwed.

Halcrow was sitting in a chair next to the table on which his arm lay, and Ed gritted his teeth and glared at the bastard, who merely smirked back at him. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and a rifle lay across his lap; neither he nor his minions had answered Ed's demands that they tell him what they were planning.

He crossed one of his legs over the other, and pulled unenthusiastically at the chain around his one wrist. It didn't loosen, just as it hadn't the last few hundred times he'd tried.

One of the guards lit a cigarette, the flare of the match blinding-bright to Ed's dark-accustomed eyes. He blinked several times, and by the time his vision had adjusted, there was a man standing in the doorway, panting. "Sir!" he cried, and Halcrow looked up sharply.

"Nicholas?"

"They're recalling half the forces from Yikatrinburg!" Nicholas took a few, frantic steps into the room, coming a few feet closer to Ed. From this new vantage point, Ed could see how he was sweating; he must have run all the way here.

"Where did the orders come from?" Halcrow demanded, eyes narrowing. One of his men cocked his rifle and pointed it at Ed, who felt mildly annoyed.

"According to our contacts, sir, clearance code priority one," Nicholas told him, panting. "The Fuhrer."

Halcrow looked caught off guard. "Why?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and fumbling in his pocket for a cigar. "What does he plan? He cannot know where our base is, and surely he knows we will kill the hostage before we surrender - Peter, put the gun away. We will _not_ shoot Mr Elric here, not after he has done such a wonderful job of rising from the grave."

Ed gritted his teeth at the jibe, but refused to look away. It didn't matter; Nicholas took a few more steps towards Halcrow, and bowed. "Sir," he said, evidently troubled. "Our contact just told us they're deploying the soldiers around the city - and that the Fuhrer -"

Halcrow held up a hand and shot Edward a pointed glare, then rose to his feet. "Come with me, Nicholas. I think we need to discuss this with our contact. Where is he?"

"He's in the communications department," the younger man said, and bit his lip. "They're operating from the university - one of the buildings which we haven't destroyed yet."

"I see," Halcrow said, and drew a box of matches out of his other pocket. "Peter. Stay here with the Fullmetal brat, won't you? I shan't be more than two hours." He pitched his rifle over his shoulder and jerked his chin at the man who had lit the match just before Nicholas came in. "Sean, Jason. You too."

Ed's brows drew together; 'Sean' and 'Jason were not typical names in this region. Did that mean that Sean and Jason themselves were not natives? It was too dark to tell, and he cursed quietly. Well. They had weapons taken from the military, as well as several he suspected had been developed in Drachma; it made sense that Halcrow hadn't been alone in quitting the military and vowing vengeance on the new Fuhrer after Roy's coup. "You bastard Colonel," Ed whispered. "You should've made _sure_ they were gone."

One of the guards was eyeing him oddly, and Ed tipped his face forward to hide his embarrassed grin with his bangs. Goddamnit, talking to yourself was _never_ a good idea.

From the cover of his bangs, he surveyed the room. Two guards remaining, both fully armed; Peter, and the brawny red-head who had just caught him muttering to himself. He was chained to the wall next to the door, the table on which his arm lay three metres in the opposite direction. The amount of guards had been reduced by half, and the remaining two were on the other side of the room. It was the _perfect_ opportunity for a wild escape attempt.

If only he had a _plan_.

Briefly he entertained the notion of summoning the guards over, and then kicking their legs out from underneath them... and then the idea fizzled to a halt. He sighed, drumming his heels restlessly against the floor. This could take a while.

He wondered, vaguely, what his teacher would do if she were imprisoned like this. He couldn't really imagine it; Izumi would not let herself be restrained, preferring instead to just walk right over anyone who even so much as _thought_ about it. This was, after all, the woman who had successfully stormed South HQ alone in order to rescue the creature which might or might not have been her son, and had turned out to be neither.

Wrath had been an odd creature. He'd stolen Ed's limbs, a loss which, Ed thought with a sigh when he glanced over at the open automail port, hadn't bothered him _quite_ so much before now. He'd been furious when he discovered that the only reason Wrath could do alchemy had been because he possessed Ed's arm and leg; bought them in contact with each other to create a circle, like Ed did with his arms -

Ed sat bolt upright with a rustling of the chains. His guards gave him another odd look, but he barely noticed.

_He had it._

Scar had told him once that the reason he could transmute without an array (as if he didn't know) was because when he bought his hands together, he formed a circle with his body. When Wrath did his own array-less alchemy, he also created a circle, but between an arm and a leg.

Ed looked down at his booted feet.

And grinned.

Slowly, he shifted further back against the wall, and closed his eyes. Let's see... a wall to separate him - and the exit - from his guards, yes, and simultaneously, a spike of stone to snap the chain and free him. It wouldn't have been enough to trouble him with his hands, so why should his feet be any different?

Carefully, imagining the array he would have used if he could the entire time, he bought them together.

For a long moment, there was silence, nothing, not even the spark of an alchemical reaction. Ed had opened his eyes and frowned, trying to work out what had gone wrong, when the sniggering started.

He looked up to see the two guards, one bent double with silent laughter, the other forced to lean against the wall for support. Offended, he drew himself up as best he could, given the limited circumstances. "What," he insisted, coldly, "is so funny?"

The red-head opened his mouth to answer, but gave up in the face of yet another series of spasms, and had to look away. Ed ground his teeth against each other, as Peter, the guard leaning against the wall, slid slowly downward, still giggling helplessly.

Ed smashed his boots against each other, suppressed a wince - the automail one was going to leave _bruises_ - and slammed them down on the floor, and didn't stop glaring as the two - caught off guard - whirled to face the rapidly rising wall. Ed kept at the transmutation, thickening the wall as it grew so that the gunshots they fired wouldn't get through, and left an inch at the top for air to reach them with. Next step was to send another surge of energy through the stone, and a sharp spike of rock punched out of the wall behind him, easily slicing the chain in half. He pushed himself up, half running, half stumbling over to the table, gritting his teeth against his cramping legs, and grabbed his arm. He didn't stop, and instead rolled over it, tipping it behind him with a solid _crash_ to serve as a rudimentary shield. If the sound of the transmutation hadn't attracted the attention of any more members of this terrorist cell in the vicinity, nor the shouts of the imprisoned guards, then the scream he wasn't quite able to hold back when he reconnected his arm probably had.

He flexed his metal hand, but before he had a chance to do any more than that, the sound of booted feet outside made him curse. "Al," he whispered, pressing his hands together and forcing himself to ignore the curling tendrils of pain in his shoulder, "I'm on my way."

* * *

And... viola, more EJ. Hope you liked! 


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